


Blink

by wynnebat



Series: The Sentinel of Beacon Hills [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Guide Peter Hale, Possession, Redeemable Peter Hale, Resurrection, Sentinel Stiles Stilinski, Spirit Animals, Spirit World, Stiles-centric, Torture, liberal use of fanon & handwaving of both canons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles awakened something other than a spark, and suddenly, there was a wolf spirit with its fangs around Lydia's throat, too many things he shouldn't have been able to see or smell or hear, phone conversations with a man who was way too enthusiastic about finding another sentinel, and Peter Hale, who was busy meditating in the spirit world instead of being dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to the awesome people on Rough Trade, whose encouragement was more wonderful than I can say, and to Trickster_Angel, who's very much an angel for her metaphorical hand-holding and kind words as this fic clawed its way out of my comfort zone. 
> 
> This fic contains minor Stiles/Lydia (unrequited), Lydia/Jackson, Scott/Allison, and Jim/Blair. I didn't bother tagging them because the fic's in Stiles' POV and he's much too busy for romance. 
> 
> As for **warnings** : there's canonical minor character death, canonical mind control (Jackson), violence (fight scenes, torture), voluntary ritual bloodletting (sort of), discussion of suicide (with biases), (spirit) animal bites, possession (consensual on the part of the person being possessed, but not always on the person possessing), & general themes of body autonomy (from teenagers who've been turned into creatures they're not sure they want to be).

Stiles had missed a number of physics classes over the years, but he was well acquainted with a revised first law of motion: when supernatural creatures started trying to kill you, they were not inclined to stop. It had been true for Peter, who hadn't stopped being a psychopath even after he ran out of people to kill; it was true for Derek, who wasn't killing anyone, but who'd spent the last couple weeks turning high-schoolers into werewolves when Argents were flocking in like it was another Hale fire day; and it was true for the newest creep in town, a lizard-beast that had already killed a couple people and menaced Scott at Isaac's creepy house a couple days ago.

Out of anyone, the beast was more likely to attack Scott. Scott was the one who'd gotten into a fight with it. Stiles, who was very human and very non-menacing and very into getting his Jeep fixed after Erica had ripped a part out of it earlier that day, wasn't supposed to be on the lizard's radar.

That only meant that when Stiles glanced back at his poor, broken baby from the mechanic's waiting room, the other law of the universe was in full force: if they weren't wanted, supernatural creatures were always going to show up. The lizard-beast—Stiles had no doubt that it was the same one that had attacked Scott—was huge, watching over the room from on top of the car lift near the mechanic. Its mouth was already open. Its fangs were out.

Stiles saw it and didn't wait—he was just a human, but he'd faced down crazed werewolves with nothing but his human body, and he knew there was nothing he could do but try. He took three steps, his body shaking and wavering despite his determination, and opened the door.

"Stop!" Stiles yelled at it. To the mechanic, he said, "You've got to run, there's something—"

The monster flicked its tail and dropped down onto the ground. Tools and bottles shook with the thump; Stiles' knees wavered and not even adrenaline could keep him steady for long.

"What the _fuck_ ," the mechanic breathed, staring at the monster's scaled back. "Look, uh, man, we can work this out—"

There was a sharp pain in Stiles' chest that grew cold, spreading over his body, leaving it dulled. He barely felt it as he fell forward onto the ground, curling his shoulders and lifting his neck as much as he can so that his face didn't meet the concrete. He couldn't move his arms.

The monster sent him an ugly parody of a smirk before it turned to the mechanic, turning its back to Stiles, its tail swatting his cheek, carelessly leaving a welt.

Stiles couldn't move, and for a second, he couldn't comprehend why. Then he remembered the strange liquid on the door handle. _It's a paralytic,_ Stiles realized. Either the substance was venom produced by the monster or it was aware enough to bring its own supplies. Both possibilities were fucking awful. But he couldn't think about them long because suddenly the mechanic screamed in pain.

Stiles couldn't even remember his name. It felt so wrong that he knew what the mechanic sounded like when there was a monster digging its claws into his neck, but he didn't even know his name.

His phone was in his pocket—911 was so close—but he couldn't make his body work for long enough to even slip his hand in his pocket. The most he could do was turn his head just enough to glare at the monster and yell, "Hey, asshole!"

His yell was nearly drowned out by the mechanic's screams, but Stiles knew the lizard-beast must've heard him. Still, it didn't turn around.

It didn't turn around, it didn't stop, and Stiles was watching someone die with the utter surety that he was next.

He'd never been this terrified before. Even with the alpha, there had been hope of getting away. With Peter, he'd always known that Peter had a bit of sanity left, that as long as he needed something from Stiles, he'd leave him alive. This thing was a monster unlike any Stiles has ever encountered: human enough to hunt for something other than food—maybe, he thought frantically, for fun—and creature enough to kill him or eat him or just drag him to its lair.

Stiles' heart was beating so fast that it may as well be a beacon, highlighting his location and throwing rays of _I'm here, kill me now_ at the beast. He tried to calm down, but it was no use. He hadn't been in this much of a panic since his mom died. Maybe, given a few minutes, some pain, and the existence of an afterlife, he'd even see her again. The thought gave him no comfort, only adding to the crazed mess of thoughts and feelings inside his head.

He was too young to die.

He could barely think for fear of this monster sinking its claws into his fragile human flesh ( _and oh, if only I'd just said yes,_ he thought for the first time since that night in the garage). It wasn't right or fair and for all that his heartbeat was still strong, he could barely breathe.

When he forced himself to think of the surroundings, he realized that the mechanic's screams stopped moments ago, that the mechanic was now only moaning quietly, and that the creature's footsteps were coming closer.

It was easier to focus on the mechanic than on himself, whose window of survival was as fleeting as the clicks of the beast's claws on the floor. And then he was angry, because what right did this thing have to take everything away from the mechanic? This man, he probably had a girlfriend or a husband or an adorable little kid who loved Spiderman and brownies and could tell you everything about the stegosaurus. Maybe he had no one, maybe he was more alone than Stiles was right now, but he had to have dreams and goals and maybe some pot he'd have liked to smoke before he died.

It wasn't fair, but there was no one around who could help. Stiles was useless. No one was coming.

There was a headache building in his forehead, more powerful than he'd ever felt. He wondered if it would kill him before the monster did. It started in his temples, spread along his scalp in rivulets of agony, and made its way down his spine. Weakly, Stiles moaned, and tasted blood on his tongue. It reached his tailbone and spread into his skin, his body, his nose, his ears, his eyes, in a way that couldn't be called a headache anymore as it enveloped his whole body.

It didn't kill him, which means he was awake as the beast dragged one long claw against the skin of Stiles' neck, opening his skin. His blood began to trickle out, hot against his clammy skin. The monster's claws cut through his plaid shirt easily.

And then everything hurt, and he thought he was being eaten alive until he forced his eyes open and shifted his head and saw the beast staring down at him contemplatively, as if deciding how exactly it was going to kill him.

And fuck that, because Stiles wasn't done with life. He was terrified out of his mind and in more pain than he'd ever been before ( _a side effect of the venom?_ he wondered) and he wasn't interested in bowing out of this utterly crazy life. He hadn't gone on a proper date with Lydia yet. He hadn't become the salutatorian. He hadn't become a cop or a detective or an economist or a professional men's health writer. He was just a high school student who'd been too fucking dumb to just stay home the night a girl got murdered, who catapulted himself into the world of the supernatural just for the sake of curiosity.

With a snap that echoed in his ears, the pain stopped.

So did the venom's effects.

Stiles curled his fist as the beast leaned down and didn't think as he punched it in the part of its face that was probably an ugly-looking nose. The creature recoiled an inch and then snarled, the sound coiling vicelike into the part of Stiles' brain that remembered what an apex predator sounded like.

He scrambled away, half rolling, half tripping, barely avoiding the swipe of the beast's tail as it hit the ground where his body had just been.

Usually, this was the time when he'd talk his way out of his problems. He'd talk and yell and throw in a bit of sarcasm because that never hurt, but this thing wasn't going to listen to logic, not when it hadn't even listened to the mechanic's pleading.

Stiles heard it first: the sounds of sirens in the distance, barely audible to his human ears.

"You hear that?" Stiles said. "That's the cops. You've got to know what that means. Someone heard screaming here, and any second, they're gonna get here. And I don't think even you can survive being gunned down."

What he didn't say is: _You can easily kill me now, before they even arrive._

The beast cocked its head. It waited.

Stiles didn't know for what, because he could hear the sirens clear as day now that they were coming even closer. The beast snarled under its breath as it heard them at last, and, with one last glare at Stiles, it leaped toward the door. Moments later, Stiles heard the sound of glass breaking and yet another scream.

And then, silence.

Finally, Stiles was safe.

He wanted to collapse right on the spot. He didn't, though, turning around and forcing his shaking legs to upright until he was next to the fallen mechanic. Only then did he kneel beside him and check his pulse. It was weak, barely pounding, and Stiles' hands shook as he stripped his shirt and pressed it down onto the wide gashes on the man's chest. He was bleeding too much, way too much, leaving Stiles' hands wet with blood in moments.

"Is anybody around?" Stiles yelled.

No one answered, but the mechanic groaned weakly.

"The police are on their way," Stiles told him. He could hear the interlocking noises of two police cars and an ambulance, coming closer every second. "You need to stay awake. Do you hear me?"

The mechanic forced his eyes open halfway. They were blue, so blue, and wet with tears.

"Good," Stiles told him. "Just—good. Don't pass out."

"I'm trying," the man said. "Am I gonna die?"

 _Probably,_ Stiles thought. There was so much blood on the ground around them and the police were still too far away. The mechanic wasn't not going to make it. But truth wasn't good for morale.

Stiles was about to respond when he felt a familiar numbness begin to rise up from the pads of his hands. It looked like the monster hadn't spared his venom. He had a choice: keep pressure on the wound and keep the man alive, or let go and maybe avoid falling prey to the venom once again. Stiles chose the only one he could live with.

The man tried to smile. He coughed instead. "Hell, not— gonna even lie to me?"

"Too tired for that shit," Stiles replied. He was numb up to his elbows as he asked, "Any regrets?" It seemed like the thing one was supposed to ask, when someone was dying.

Gurgling weakly, the mechanic said, "Maybe a few. I'm not going anywhere good when I die." A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. "I tried. Built m'self a better life. But—Jack, Elmer, Nick... we were all idiots. So fucking stupid. Young. It doesn't count when you're that young, right?"

"What did you do?"

The mechanic's eyes turned up to the ceiling. "You're not God. M'not gonna confess when I don't have to."

"Does it have anything to do with why someone wants you dead? Because this isn't random. Someone—something—came into your shop on purpose to kill you. It didn't even care about me, not really. Not until I tried to save you. It wanted you. _What did you do?_ "

"There was a kid—y'ger than we were—"

The mechanic didn't say much before Stiles' body collapsed sideways onto his own, knocking the breath he was speaking with from his lips.

"Keep going," Stiles muttered, his cheek pressing into the pool of blood around the mechanic.

He thought the man kept talking, but... There was so much blood. It soaked into his skin, into his pores, into his cells. Its pungent, metallic scent was going to linger on his skin for days. For all he knew, the red would stain. The mechanic's words were too important to be concentrating on the blood instead of its owner, but Stiles couldn't move. There was something binding him far stronger than the beast's venom as his mind began to zone out.

He must've been hyperventilating, because every single one of his senses felt too strong. His eyes caught on every speck of blood, his skin felt too wet and hot and unbearable, his nose tried to curl in on itself from the smell. It was unbearable.

The next time Stiles blinked, he was lying in a hospital bed.

.

There was no one at his bedside when he came to, which stung for a moment.

Stiles buried it under the fact that he wasn't a child, not anymore, and there were monsters in the world that he couldn't crawl under his dad's covers to avoid. He forced his body upright, groaning as his back hurt at even that little effort, and reached for his phone, which had been placed next to his bed. He wondered who he'd have to thank for that. He was just about to call Scott when the door opened and his dad walked in, a deep tiredness settled in the lines of his face.

He took one glance at Stiles, stilled, and crossed the room in three steps until he could pull Stiles into a tight hug. John's grip was careful, avoiding the worst of the bandaged gashes along Stiles' back. He'd probably needed stitches, Stiles realized, and blamed the unavoidable twinges of pain for the wetness in the corners of his eyes.

He'd been so fucking scared.

He still was, because when he took a deep breath, he could smell more than his father's familiar cologne: there was the smell of Melissa's hair spray, the blood of the mechanic, dust that Stiles would bet his laptop on that was from the old police paper archives. Worst of all, there was the salty smell of dried tears on his dad's cheeks, and Stiles felt like the worst kind of son.

Taking another deep breath, Stiles said, "Dad, I'm fine."

He could feel John's throat against his neck, could feel him swallow roughly and say, "I found you lying in a pool of blood with the back of your neck sliced open. There's also a gash running down your back and an unknown paralytic only recently working its way out of your system." John pulled back enough to give him a look that could pass for annoyed, if Stiles couldn't also hear the too-fast beating of his anxious heart. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Wait a couple days, at least," he said, taking a seat beside the bed.

"Maybe I'm not that fine. Just fine in the general sense. Alive."

"God, Stiles, what happened?"

"Uh. Aren't you supposed to be waiting for my delicate psyche to repair itself a bit first?"

John leveled a look at him. "Do you need that? I'm willing to wait until morning. But there's a killer on the loose, Stiles."

"Then... the mechanic, he died," Stiles realized. He wasn't prepared for how much he cared, despite not knowing the mechanic at all. "I— I tried to help him."

"I know. There was a witness who called the police. He said you ran into the room and tried to help him. I'm proud of you... Even if I'd rather you never got into that situation at all."

"I don't know how much I can give you.. It was..."

"A giant lizard creature. Yes, I know."

Shocked, Stiles said, "You know?"

"There were four people in the waiting room, also paralyzed, who heard screaming. One was able to call the police and Jason Tillet—the mechanic—was able to give us some details before he passed. We believe that the drug that the killer used to paralyze you had a hallucinogenic properties—we're still testing the samples found on the crime scene and in the bloodstreams of the six people who were paralyzed."

Of course his dad had a rational explanation for this. Unfortunately, Stiles didn't live in a world of rational explanations, unlike his dad, who was going to be looking for someone human. That meant Stiles had to find this monster before the police did, because he wasn't sure even his dad could survive the experience. The beast had only been interested in toying with him; as for his dad, an armed cop out for justice, the beast would be a lot less willing to leave him be.

"Did he say anything about why this—killer—was after him?"

John shook his head. "No, only confirming the witnesses' version of events of something that looks like a giant lizard."

Stiles nodded, and began filling in the details for his dad. That he'd been at the mechanic's to get his car fixed after finding it mysteriously damaged after school—bullying, it happened, or maybe someone'd been trying to steal car parts (his dad looked less than believing, but let it slide)—and had only talked to Jason for a couple minutes before he'd gone back out into the waiting room, not thinking anything of the liquid on the doorknob at first. Then, when he turned back and saw a shadowy, strange-looking figure on top of a car, he went back in.

It was strangely freeing to tell his father the complete truth, even if John was assuming his recollections weren't what really happened. Maybe even because of it.

By the time Stiles finished, John was rubbing circles into his knee, as if wanting to make sure he was still alive. "What happened to calling the police? Or me?"

"There wasn't any time," Stiles said, and promises, "I... I'll call you next time."

"Please," John said.

Stiles' stomach turned as he wondered if his promise held any glint of truth, but the moment was broken through by a call on John's phone. After a moment's conversation—all of which Stiles could hear—John said, "They've found a lead."

"Go, Dad."

"Are you sure?"

Stiles picked up his phone. "I'll call Scott. He'll keep me company."

Before he left, John added, "There's also a witness who wants to talk to you, the one who called us. Danny Mahealani—he goes to your school."

Stiles nodded, both to the visit and the knowledge.

Stiles didn't know Danny very well. He knew bits and pieces—as much as anyone in high school knew things about someone they didn't really talk to. Danny was on the lacrosse team (though with twenty members, counting the on-field and on-bench ones, they've ever only shouted, "Pass it to me!" at each other), a good student (his lab bench was across the aisle from Stiles', and occasionally he'd glance over to make sure their experiments were doing the same thing), gay (probably the most out student in the school, but maybe there were others, and Stiles was just oblivious to gossip), and, most importantly and unfortunately, Jackson's best friend. If not for the last part, Stiles might've actually liked Danny. Instead, he occasionally spent class periods wondering exactly what awful thing lurked under Danny's nice exterior that allowed him to spend extended amounts of time with the biggest asshole in Beacon Hills.

Still, he said, "Thanks for calling the police," when Danny walked into his hospital room minutes after his dad left.

"You're welcome. I was still too late, though."

"Yeah." But, "Not too late to save me, I guess." With a smirk, he added, "Jackson'll be pissed."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Jackson hates you, but he doesn't want you dead."

"How'd you do it, anyway? I thought you were paralyzed, too."

"Voice dial."

"I should get a phone that has that," Stiles said.

"It comes in handy." A pause. "Look, are you going to tell me what happened or is this a 'cousin Miguel who conveniently looks like Derek Hale' thing that's going to happen and you're never going to fucking explain."

"Uh."

"Of course. Seriously, why is everyone in my life lying to me?"

Stiles shrugged and wondered if the wonder twins that were Jackson and Danny were finally having problems, and didn't particularly care. He had bigger things to worry about, like the fact that he'd been changed into something else, something he couldn't even describe. Fuck, he could turn into a giant lizard tonight. He needed help.

"Can I ask you for a favor? You're good with getting information—" He wasn't actually supposed to know that Danny had been in juvie for hacking, but really, how was a sheriff's kid supposed to keep himself from snooping? "Can you find Derek Hale's number for me? It's an emergency. A dire emergency."

He could probably find it himself; Derek had to be listed somewhere. But that somewhere was going to be buried underneath numbers and websites and New York servers since Stiles doubted Derek had gotten a Beacon Hills one. It would take too long, because Stiles still had to research the mechanic's names, the lizard-beast, and these weird powers he'd woken.

"Why?"

"We had one beautiful night of passion together but he left before I could ask if I could call him."

"Bullshit."

"He's my long lost brother."

"Even worse."

"I think I might be dying or worse and I need to call him."

"Really, Stiles? You look perfectly alive."

"Just— please?"

And because he was a bastard whose best friend was Jackson fucking Whittemore, Danny said, "Tell me what happened today. Whoever it was, they got me too—paralyzed me, made me hallucinate, made me powerless. I need to know."

There was a lie on the tip of Stiles' tongue, but what came out was, "It was, uh, a lizard. A human sized lizard." He was so sick of lying.

Danny sighed, crossed his arms, and waited.

As the seconds passed, Stiles thought about it and his thoughts culminated with _fuck it_. "So, werewolves..." Stiles said, and began to tell the tale of the girl in the woods. It was a short, truncated story, full of confused teenagers and fear and the world crashing on its axis right there in Beacon Hills.

When Stiles finished, Danny said, "I doubt it has anything to do with this, but... Jackson has been acting... strange lately."

"I get it. Happens to me all the time when my dad buys me the wrong color Ferrari."

Danny rolled his eyes. "It's more than that. He's been secretive even to me and we don't keep secrets from each other. And... You know I'm going to tell Lydia, right?"

"No secrets from her, either?"

"We've all been friends since elementary school. I trust their judgment."

"What about Jackson?"

"I don't know. I need to get him to talk to me first, I think."

"Just give me a heads up before you tell them?"

"Sure. Just like you'll give me a heads up whenever they or I might be in danger."

"Smooth, Danny."

.

After Danny left, Stiles called the most-called number on his phone. For once, Scott picked up the phone on the first ring.

Stiles didn't waste any time. "I need you to come over. Now."

There was a voice in the background, breathy and just a little annoyed. Allison's, asking who it was.

"Is it important?" Scott asked. "I'm—with Allison." He didn't even need to inflect for Stiles to guess how exactly they were together.

"Yeah, it's important." With only an, "I'm in the hospital. Room 128. Bring your handcuffs," he hung up.

With Scott at Allison's, it should've taken him at least half an hour to get to the hospital. He got there in ten, slamming the door open and skidding into Stiles' room. His fingers had the tips of claws on their ends, and his eyes had a wild look that Stiles hadn't seen directed at him in a while.

"Hey, man," Stiles said, and explained what happened for the third time since he woke up. His voice felt a bit sore and his back hurt and his ears were hearing too many sounds, so by the end, his words were quiet, almost whispered. Scott heard them anyway. Stiles finished with, "I need you to stay with me tonight."

"Stiles... are you okay?"

"Probably not," Stiles admitted. "A few weeks ago, Derek said that even a scratch can turn you. And I... I'm hearing things I'm not supposed to be able to hear, smelling things, seeing things, zoning out... There's a strong possibility of me turning into... something." A word like werelizard didn't encompass the utter terror the creature inspired.

"God, tell me you're joking."

"I wish. I really wish I were."

That night, Scott guarded him against the world, sitting by his side. Stiles slept fitfully, the sounds of the hospital too loud for true sleep, the bedsheets strangely rough against his skin, the cuffs hard against his wrists. But with Scott's heartbeat in his ears, he made it through the night. He didn't shift into anything, which worried Stiles a lot more than if he had. It didn't feel like there was something trying to get out from underneath his skin. He felt like himself; he just felt and heard and saw a whole lot more.

Before he had to leave the next morning, Scott said, "I was fully healed when I woke up the morning after Peter bit me. I don't know what you are, but you don't heal, at least."

"That's just great," Stiles groaned. "If I had to choose anything, it would be being something that can heal me. With my luck, it'll probably scar, too." Shaking his head, because he had bigger things to worry about, he said, "I need get a so many things done..."

"Delegate them," Scott said, firmly, "Because if you think you're getting out of that bed before my mom—or maybe a doctor, _maybe_ —says you can, the lizard clawed through a lot more than your back."

"Thanks," Stiles replied, and the word was a little bittersweet, a little tired, because this moment was so temporary. He'd spent the last few weeks trying to browbeat Scott into first believing he was a werewolf, then into taking his newfound ability to go mad with rage a few days a month seriously, then into a complicated dance to stay on Scott's radar when all his senses were tuned to Allison. This was the most time they'd spent together outside of moments of danger since the Argents and the Hales entered their lives. "Here's what I need you to do..."

After Scott left, Stiles managed to finagle a newspaper from a nurse, who dubiously eyed his condition but allowed it into his hands. Its front page read,

 _THE LIZARD KILLER: EXCLUSIVE PROFILE ON THE BEACON HILLS MYSTERY_  
On page 3: Could it be connected to the other mysterious deaths?  
On page 4: Psychologist Judy Bluth reveals what could cause a man assume a lizard suit  
On page 5: Stay safe from hallucinatory drugs, an outline by the Beacon Hills police department

He was on page seven, a fascinating but completely unrelated article about the history of the furry community (this, perhaps, was not the most highly rated newspaper in the region) when his phone buzzed. He programmed the unknown number whose message bore only another unknown number and a question about whether all this meant bigfoot was real as Danny. The other he listed as Derek, whom he called and wrested out a promise from to come over once Stiles was out of the hospital and tell him everything he knew. Even though Derek said he knew nothing of lizard-beasts, Stiles still hoped he knew something, anything relevant.

"Why now?" Derek asked.

"There's something wrong with me and you're going to help me fix it. Because this all started with the Hales, every last problem that's forced its way into my life in the past couple months, and this, I'll take any bet that this is tied to you or Peter."

Because if there was anyone who could wreak havoc from beyond the grave, it was Peter Hale.

Soon enough, they hung up, and Stiles was left to his own devices in the hospital room.

Stiles couldn't do much from his cell phone. After breaking his two old ones in quick succession (his dad hadn't bought his _blame the werewolves_ excuse any more than he believed in the giant killer lizard), his new one was one that was marketed as the most indestructible cell phone one could buy. That was its only redeeming quality, as its ability to connect to the internet, its battery life, and memory capacity left everything to be desired.

He couldn't do much from the hospital in general, either. He'd met nearly all the nurses and doctors and aides and off-duty cops "just dropping by to see how you're doing, kiddo" at one point or another, so even ambling to the door got him a stern look from his guard and an order to get back in bed.

And once he was back, he was accosted by a girl from the school newspaper who he was pretty sure faked a sprained ankle to get inside the hospital. He point-blank refused to have his photo taken by the camera guy—Matt, who he vaguely remembered playing against in their middle school's chess club and having a class with last year—but gave in and told them the gist of what happened.

Despite telling them there'd been a hallucinogenic involved, Stiles probably sounded like a lunatic as he described what happened. It sounded like the plot of a B-rated movie— _Attack of the Lizard-Beast!_ —except with more blood and less voluptuous blondes. But Stiles' dad was doing all he could to make sure people knew there was a killer on the loose, and Stiles knew his peers had to know, too.

Leslie, the aspiring reporter, just nodded and jotted down whatever he said. With all seriousness, she asked, "Would you say the lizard monster had greenish scales, or a darker color?"

Stiles answered as best as he could.

Later, as Matt and Leslie were about to leave, Matt asked, "When do you think you'll be out of the hospital?"

"Soon, hopefully," Stiles muttered. His phone was at eleven percent battery by now. "But it depends on the docs rather than me. It might be days." He wondered how hard it would be to smuggle a laptop in, under the cover of darkness and utterly against his dad's orders of getting some rest.

"I hope you recover quickly, then," Matt said, smiling.

It was a weird smile. Stiles kind of wondered if Matt was hitting on him, which, well, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing that had happened to him, but hospitals weren't really the best place to start something. Especially so since Stiles' back had been itching like mad as it slowly began to heal.

(If Lydia were to come by, that was a whole different story.)

(Lydia did not, in fact, come by.)

But the visit by his classmates still went a thousand times better than that of his father, who was now less scared out of his mind and more scrutinizing Stiles' every word for clues. Even worse was the visit by the mechanic's parents, whose voices were wrecked as they thanked him for trying to save their son's life. Their kindness hurt more than any anger they could have shown, because even though he'd tried, Stiles had still failed.

Stiles got released from the hospital that evening with a doctor's serious statement to call them immediately if he began to have any adverse effects from the still unknown poison.

At home, he locked the doors and windows, then double-checked. He didn't allow himself to walk around the house a third time, half because his dad was there, half because he was going to have to deal with the leftover terror in some productive way. He put his nervous energy toward researching his many questions, focusing first on humanoid lizards throughout history, then the mechanic's history and what could've led to his death. He figured that since his body didn't seem to be about to collapse from his newly enhanced senses, the lizard-beast was currently the biggest threat.

In the early hours of the morning, Stiles tried to fall asleep, but the Smiths from across the street were watching a Dracula movie, and the Jones had a three-week old kid with a terrible name and an insanely loud cry, and Stiles' body wasn't working and neither were his ADD meds. Sleep wasn't coming.

He did what he did best: research. This time, he forgot the mechanic and the lizard-beast, and got a tape measure. He marked his vision and hearing. He tasted everything in the fridge and graduated to the cupboards as he realized he could identify almost everything by just the slightest touch of his tongue. He sprayed air freshener and slowly walked backward until he was outside the house and couldn't smell its minty fresh scent. He made notes and wondered if his senses could be heightened by danger, by emotions, by force of will.

In the end, he decided that maybe, this thing that had happened might be kind of cool. He hadn't magically transformed into Batman or Captain America, but he was already coming up with the trouble he could get into with his powers, so it wasn't completely awful. Maybe later, once his newfound senses weren't connected so thoroughly to a night of terror, it wouldn't even be bad at all.

None of his research actually helped with falling asleep, but Stiles researched his symptoms online for hours—someone had to have turned into something like him—and passed out from exhaustion as the sun began to rise.

.

Two days later, Stiles returned to school. He was a minor, so his name wasn't reported by the local newspaper and the school's newspaper only ran a monthly issue, but as he walked into the building there wasn't a head that didn't turn toward him. He felt a bit like Lydia, who'd gotten as much attention when she'd come back with no memory of being missing for a couple days and running through the woods naked. Except Lydia probably liked the attention ( _she should, as she's a goddess,_ Stiles thought) and he just hoped the news blew over soon.

Before first period, Stiles pulled Scott into an out of the way janitor's closet.

"Any luck?" he asked, quietly, because Derek had been making his pack and Stiles wasn't sure how many werewolves were in the school right now. He didn't want his business aired out to anyone with a pair of super ears. Just in case, he set some music to play.

Scott shook his head to the tune of Lady Gaga. "Not on the—" he waved a hand at Stiles "— _you_ thing. I talked to Deaton and he has no idea what happened. He also didn't have any info on giant lizards. We're on our own, I think."

"As usual," Stiles said, frowning. "Did he even try to explain how he knows about werewolves?"

Scott made a face. "He talked in circles until I gave up and left. But he did give me one thing." He pulled out a small metal case, the size of an altoids container, wrapped in a shimmery fabric, and handed it to Stiles.

When Stiles swung open the lid, he found a sandy brown powder inside. Nothing happened when he poked at it, so he glanced over at Scott.

Scott's eyes were a little golden as he said, "It's called mountain ash. You're supposed to make a line with it. If you can cross, you're a— something supernatural. Deaton says almost every creature he knows of is affected by it at least a little. If not, then..."

"Then I'm not a member of your clubhouse," Stiles said, and emptied the box onto the ground. Even as he arranged the mountain ash in a line, he knew it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. He didn't feel a thing when he touched it, nor when he dropped it, and it was only a little grainy under his sneakers as Stiles stepped across the line without a single problem.

He scooped up as much of it as he could and placed it back into the box, then pocketed it.

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Deaton said it was expensive. And rare. And that he'd like it back, if possible."

"It also stops werewolves, right? With the way Derek's been biting high schoolers, it's only a matter of time before there's a dozen teenagers with rage issues running around and _trying to murder me_."

"That only happened once," Scott muttered. "I got better."

"Yeah, well, they won't have me around to make sure they find anchors. They're gonna have Derek, who's not really the most communicative guy. I mean, this is the guy who waited ages to bother telling us that he didn't actually murder his sister and that there's another terrifying werewolf out there, barely said a thing about anchors, and helped during your first full moon by almost getting you killed by hunters."

"And he told me the bite was a _gift_." Scott scowled.

"I know. They're gonna be like, little angry ducklings with no direction whatsoever."

"Fanged and furry ones."

"Murderous, too. Let's not forget that one."

Despite everything, they grinned at each other as they walked out of the janitor's closet. Scott still left for Allison soon after, though this time, he left a moment to say goodbye instead of rushing off. Stiles wasn't even slightly hopeful that this was a permanent change, but he liked it.

He smiled even wider as he picked out a familiar voice a few feet away from turning the corner into his hallway. Lydia was complaining about Harris (because if there was one teacher who was universally hated in this school, it was him) being stingy with his A's, but her voice was perfect to Stiles' ears, her heartbeat strong. She was alive. Stiles still clearly remembered her scream on the night Peter attacked her; he would do pretty much anything to make sure she never had to scream in terror again.

Lydia rounded the corner and turned in Stiles' direction, and he didn't even notice her entourage of Jackson and Danny around her. And it wasn't because she was a goddess or because Stiles loved her like it was an Olympic sport or because she looked particularly beautiful today.

Stiles last saw her a few days ago. Since then, the only thing that had changed were his new powers, which meant that either he was hallucinating (of which he was more or less sure there hadn't been a sign of yet) or seeing more than he was able to see a couple days ago.

Because there was a wolf hanging from Lydia's throat like a demented necklace, and that wasn't the normal state of things.

"Lydia!" Stiles called, walking forward to meet her halfway. For once, his eyes weren't locked on her pretty hazel ones. He stopped right in front of her.

"What do you want, Stiles?"

This close, he saw the wolf more clearly, especially the way it hung from Lydia's neck. Its four canines punctured her neck the most, her skin torn and raw underneath them, dried blood staining parts of her neck and the wolf's muzzle. The incisors between the canines did their share of the work, digging into her flesh in half-moon circles that were already scarring over.

It didn't make sense that she couldn't feel it, because the wolf had to be crushing her windpipe, or at least causing her some pain. It was large, its body stretching down to her waist, and gravity had to be making its pull unbearable. But Lydia looked at him like it was him who was acting weird. Maybe he was. Maybe this was one big hallucination. Stiles had no idea anymore.

He extended his hand. He wasn't sure if he hoped he could or couldn't feel it; what made a hallucination less true?

The wolf felt sharp, its fur like blades of glass, but Stiles thought they hurt the wolf more than him because the faint heat emanating onto his fingers and the very subtle rise of its chest were the first signs of life he'd seen from it. The wolf looked tired, worn, his fur a mess of knotted fur and dried blood. Stiles ran his hand down its body, which only caused a small, low growl to find its way through its throat.

But in its fur was more than blood. There was ash and soot and, once disturbed from its place in the wolf's fur, a smoky smell that sparked a memory of the only person Stiles had ever tried to burn alive.

When the wolf opened its eyes, Stiles already expected the red of its irises.

"You're not Peter," he murmured. Not exactly. The wolf's eyes weren't fierce enough, or angry enough, to be Peter. But it was something close. Whatever it was, it had Peter's fingerprints imprinted on its very soul.

Lydia's words called him back to the world around him. "Are you trying to _grope_ me?"

"Uh," Stiles floundered, meeting her eyes for the first time that day. "I think I'm still hallucinating," he told her, and sidestepped her quickly before speed-walking away. He knocked shoulders with a couple people on the way and almost managed to knock down someone's camera and another person's diorama of Yggdrasil.

"Wait up!" he heard from behind, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure it wasn't Jackson deciding to punch him to defend Lydia's honor or something.

It was only Danny, who asked, "Is something wrong?" as he came to a halt half a foot away. "Is it about—you know, the other stuff?"

Stiles nodded. "You can't tell Lydia about it all yet. Or Jackson. There's something seriously wrong."

"What is it?"

"I don't know. But it has to do with Peter Hale."

And that was bad news if he'd ever heard any, so Stiles continued on his way out of the school building. It was only his first day back and he was skipping already, but it couldn't be helped. He had a dead man to track down.

Stiles' first stop was his own house, but only for a moment. Next was the Hale house. It was thankfully empty of Derek Hale and Chris Argent's lot, because Stiles was pretty sure bringing along a method of entrapment probably used by hunters was some kind of sign of war.

He swallowed when he saw Laura's grave had a fresh gravestone at its head. It was the same white stone of his mother's, and Stiles reflexively signed the cross. Any bit helped, but he hoped that if there was a god up there, they weren't watching his next steps. Peter's grave didn't have a gravestone, just a slightly raised mound of dirt, and Stiles didn't feel bad as he dug his shovel in.

It was almost a surprise to actually find a body.

He uncovered the head just enough to identify Peter's corpse, then dug a shallow circle around the body. He placed mountain ash inside and buried it, so that neither wind nor stray steps could shift the ash. Hopefully, neither would Peter, even if Peter's wolf was already attached to Lydia.

His scent was all over the graves, incriminating him easily, so he texted Derek to let him know what he did on the way back to his car. On the drive home, his mind lingered on Peter. The man was very much dead—Stiles had now seen the body himself. There could be no doubt. But he also remembered the wolf with its fangs in Lydia's neck. He'd touched its fur and felt a thrum that could only be Peter.

 _Is there a place between life and death?_ he wondered.

He ran his hand over his face, feeling tired. There were way too many things he had to research and google had way too many failings. He'd never wished google were actually as omniscient as it sometimes felt it was before this whole werewolf business began. Stiles knew the universe wasn't actually conspiring against him, but sometimes, it felt that way. No one had given him information for free: not Deaton, who was a kindly mentor right up until he ran into the supernatural and refused say a word; not the Argents, who knew the supernatural world from the perspective of extinguishing it; not anyone. There had been a day, he vaguely remembered, when trusting the adults in his life had actually been a possibility. Things had been so much easier back then.

His dad was gone when Stiles got home, working double to catch the killer that was on the loose. It was only almost eight in the morning and Stiles' bed looked inviting, but he had work to do. He put on some newly bought noise-blocking headphones, ignored the scent of freshly-mowed grass from the neighbor's yard, and began to scour the internet once again. He shelved his research into humanoid lizards for the day, because by this point, he was more or less sure he wasn't turning into one.

But he was still turning into something—or awakening something in his blood that has been long dormant. Something that allowed him to see animals where they weren't supposed to be. Lydia had never been his first priority, not really, not when his dad and Scott were in his life, but he cared about her too much to leave her at the mercy of the wolf.

He looked for people who saw too far and heard too much and smelled too hard. There wasn't when he filtered out fictional characters (though if he was turning into Daredevil, he wasn't going to complain), synesthesia, and normal people with better than average senses. Stiles wasn't Danny by any means, but he knew his way around coding and the internet. After all this time, he knew how to get as much as he could from what was available. And what was strictly speaking not quite freely available.

After many dead ends, he found Blair Sandburg: a former PhD candidate in the nineties, who washed out a couple years into a paper on people with heightened senses born to be protectors of civilization. A decade later, Sandburg got a PhD in history instead. Stiles thought he'd been smoking a bit too much of something. And then he found a badly scanned copy of one of Sandburg's papers and nearly didn't blink until he reached the end.

But he can't tear his eyes away because _this is it_. Sandburg wrote about enhanced senses that emerged in people when they entered grave danger, subsequent states of focusing too hard on one sense until the rest went temporarily dormant, and an enlightened idea of the spiritual plane. It was nearly fiction, but so was Stiles' life.

Stiles didn't wait to call Sandburg; by then, was a more or less respectable hour of the morning. He dialed with his heart thudding in his chest.

One ring. Two. Three. Four. Stiles tapped his fingers against his knee. It was nearly ten in the morning. There was no reason for— He heard a click and then, "Hello," from a  man's sleep-roughed voice.

"Hello, Dr. Sandberg. I have a—"

"That's not me," the man groaned. A pause. "This isn't my phone," he said with what dismay could drag through his apparently still half-asleep mind. Stiles was about to ask if he'd stolen it, and if he had, would he be interested in please giving it back so that Stiles could reach its actual owner, when he heard a muffled static sound. The man must have covered the phone with his hand. With most, it would've been enough, but through the barrier Stiles still heard him say, "Blair, stop leaving your phone on my bedside table."

"It's your own fault," came another, fainter voice. It was muffled by something; maybe a pillow, or a blanket. "You keep moaning about me sleeping through calls. This way, you can shut it off yourself. Blame the caller, not the called, man."

"I blame this fucking state. Legalizing gay marriage, my ass. It's all a scheme to wake me up before ten am. Goddamn, I'm retired for a reason."

"You're so romantic in the morning."

"And _I'm_ still here," Stiles said, helpfully.

"That you are," replied the second voice, who Stiles was going to assume was Blair Sandberg, PhD. "How can I help? You know, it's Jim who people usually call this early."

"I think I'm a sentinel," Stiles told him, using the phrase Blair used throughout the paper. "I have the senses and shit. But that's not important."

Blair huffed a breath. "Of course it isn't. No one ever takes the amazing opportunity of being the protector of a community seriously." His words were strangely reminiscent of Derek going around proclaiming Scott's unwanted bite had been a gift; they left a lot to be desired.

"I can barely protect myself. The community can wait," Stiles replied. He began to tell Blair about his transformation, the new senses, and Lydia, lightly coating the story with a layer of normality. Since Blair's essay hadn't gone into werewolves or lizard-beasts, Stiles left them out. He wasn't sure how much Blair knew about the supernatural. It probably wasn't dangerous to let him know, but Stiles wasn't about to spend the next hour on the phone with a curious academic. He finished with, "But is it possible I could be something else?"

"Man, you have the senses. There's hardly a doubt. And if you can see someone's spirit animal, something everyone else can't see, you're definitely a sentinel. Or a guide, but you'd know if you were a guide. You're not complaining about feeling people's emotions, after all."

"Can sentinels and guides change their shape? Like, uh, werewolves?"

"No, of course not. All you have are your senses. But that's a lot already, and you can train them to become even better. You're actually pretty lucky that you emerged so young; it's a bitch to refocus your entire worldview when you're in your thirties or forties."

"Are there a lot of others like us?"

"Not many; maybe twenty at most, both sentinels and guides included, and I know most only by reputation. It's not something we really advertise, for obvious reasons." Without Stiles' prompting, Blair added, "Guides usually emerge around a sentinel, though sometimes it's done backwards. We make up for the jumping in head first idiocy of sentinels by focusing on the inner world, while sentinels focus on the outer one. But we both have access to the spirit world. It houses our spirit animals—our spiritual selves. The spirit animal you saw, does it remind you of anyone? Maybe someone in your life who thinks they know you better than you know yourself?"

_Do you want the bite?_

All werewolves could hear lies. But not all knew when someone was lying to themselves. Stiles doubted their ears couldn't be deceived. Peter had been better than any of them; maybe, good enough to be one of these mythical guides.

"Are you trying to say we're somehow bound together? That he's my guide because of this proximity thing?" Stiles had already told Peter no once. He could do it again. It would be easier this time, because even if becoming a werewolf had a bit of allure, being tied to a crazed murderer didn't. But it was a little hard to say anything when Peter was dead. Dead and still fucking things up.

"No. There's always a choice involved in these things."

"Except the choice to become a sentinel."

"Look, kid—"

Stiles took a deep breath. "No, it's fine. I shouldn't— I don't mind that much. But the thing is, the guy this spirit animal thing reminds me of, he's dead. Dead as a dodo. I watched him die."

"Death has a different meaning to sentinels and guides. This is only conjecture, because I've never personally dealt with this kind of thing, but he may have been able to cling to life in the spirit world. He may be using his spirit animal to somehow transfer his essence from the spirit world and into your friend. It's... highly unethical. Who is this man?"

"He's... someone I can deal with." He eyed the three canisters of homemade explosives he'd made last night. There was no reason to get these two men involved in the mess that was Beacon Hills.

As if reading his mind, Blair said, "You can't bring anything into the spirit world. Not even weapons. You go as you are, in only spirit."

"You can't be saying everyone goes around naked there."

Blair's tone was nostalgic as he said, "Only if you want to be. Once you're inside, you'll have a measure of instinctual control over the spirit world. We are its guardians, in a way. You'll likely find yourself in your favorite, most comfortable clothes."

"And holding my favorite, most comfortable weapon?"

"Neither Jim nor I have ever been able to make one appear."

Diplomacy and threats, Stiles decided. "Can you tell me how to get into the spirit world? I just need to know how to find him."

Blair's pause was just a little too long. "Is he dangerous?"

"No more than the rest of the spirit world. Uh, actually, is the spirit world dangerous?"

"Very. It houses a reflection of the human world, an echo of everything that is and ever was. That includes monsters and warped things, trapped souls gone insane... It's also got the most awesome waterfalls I've ever seen—and man, I've travelled a lot over the years—and more species of animals that exists on earth, and an immeasurable vastness that gives you a strange sort of peace."

Blair was a strange sort of person, Stiles privately decided. "How do I get inside? And find anyone in it?"

"Everyone has their own way of getting into the spirit world. Call up your spirit animal and it will take it from there. The spirit world is its home; it knows its way around."

"This is all way too spiritual for me," Stiles grumbled. A part of him—the part that remembered how before his mom died, he'd gone to church with his parents, his mom in a pretty dress, his dad's slacks ironed and shoes shined—wanted to know exactly how this all aligned with Christianity. The part of him that liked writing obscure research papers was practically salivating. The rest of him just despaired about how much weirder his world had suddenly gotten. "And how exactly do I get my spirit animal to come around? Supersonic dog whistle?"

"Only meditation," Blair replied, his voice amused as he began to outline a few methods of connecting to one's inner self. All of the methods involved sitting still and thinking of nothing, or of something particular, for long periods of time.

That wasn't Stiles' game at all, both by way of ADD and personality. "Anything a bit more... physical? I can do a ritual or something. Give blood to a recreation of Stonehenge. That sort of thing."

"You can attempt to follow your friend's guidelines."

"Meditation it is. One last question—can you die inside the spirit world?"

"I've never tested it. Be careful. If you need help—"

"I don't. Really."

"Alright. Call me back in under twenty-four hours to let me know you're safe. If not, I'll give you an hour's grace period—then go in after you."

Stiles already had an argument planned out, one didn't quite go _I'm sixteen, not five_ , even if it resembled it. "Come on, you don't even know me. I've gotten out of a lot more trouble easily—"

"You've got one day, kid." And Blair clicked off the line.

.

Not twenty minutes later, Stiles heard the now almost commonplace sounds of someone climbing up toward his window. It was very distinctive: the huff of breath and thump as someone took a running jump onto the closest large branch of the tree near his window, the thump of steps as someone walks closer, the thud as they jump onto his roof. He was actually a bit embarrassed that he'd never noticed it without his extra hearing.

Stiles grabbed his aluminum baseball bat, but dropped it when he recognized the shape looming outside his window. He opened the window just as his intruder was about to reach for the glass. Stiles raised an eyebrow at Derek and asked, "Is this a thing for you? Stalking teenagers?"

"No." Derek climbed through the window, somehow making it look easy, and not like he was shoving nearly two hundred pounds of muscle through a small opening. Stiles thought it was a Derek thing rather than a werewolf trait, because Scott definitely hadn't suddenly become graceful.

"Scott told me you were watching his lacrosse practice yesterday."

"I had a reason."

"Sure you did." Making sure his newly turned werewolves didn't kill anyone, because Derek had turned them all within days of the full moon. "You had your eye on someone. I get it."

Derek's glare was very expressive. "I heard you were finally released from the hospital. If you don't want me to tell you what I know about the supernatural—"

"Sit down, dude," Stiles told him, motioning to a beanbag chair. "Of course I want to know."

The thing was, Stiles wasn't exactly sure he had time to ask all his questions. But if Derek was offering to talk, he was down for listening. Blair had given him twenty-four hours; a couple could still go toward this. He opened a document titled _fucking werewolves.docx_. Derek's face grew pinched as he saw a numbered list of questions that spanned multiple pages, but he didn't run for the hills.

"How much are your senses enhanced, assuming an average human baseline?" Stiles began.

His fingers didn't leave the keyboard for almost two hours. His questions were half based on everything he'd wanted to know for the past couple months, half based on the tests he did on himself. Alpha forms, beta forms, omegas, control issues, anchors all came up, as did relative strength tests. Derek could make an indentation on Stiles' solid metal bat, but he couldn't easily bend it in half. It wasn't nearly as precise a measurement as Stiles would've preferred. Still, he dealt with what he had.

Stiles found out that knotting wasn't a thing, Derek's annoyed blush was pretty hilarious, and vampires only possibly didn't exist. He learned that there was more truth to mythology than he ever gathered. He realized that Derek couldn't hear the Williams' baby monitor from a couple blocks down—not this far away from the full moon. He learned about the ebbs and tides of a werewolf's power.

And Stiles realized that even if he didn't have Derek's strength or healing, his senses were an order of magnitude stronger. They were the kinds of senses people might kill over—or kidnap over.

Eventually, Derek said, "I need to go soon." He almost sounded apologetic.

Stiles tactfully didn't ask what exactly he had to do, since it wasn't like Derek had a job. "One last question: do you know anything about meditation? Some wolfy ways to make it easier?"

Maybe it was because he'd gotten used to answering Stiles' questions by now, but slowly, Derek said, "My sister used to meditate."

Stiles stilled. Shit, he hadn't meant to bring up anything to do with Derek's family. They didn't usually get along—not with Derek's free-bite policy and attempts to seduce Scott into his pack by way of glares and punches—but somethings were off limits. Still, it was Derek who brought it up. "Yeah?"

"Laura. She used to—fuck."

"Dude, it's okay if—"

"Shut up. She got into it during her second year of college. Not the rest of the new age hippie stuff, but just meditation. She told me it helped her organize her thoughts and make decisions. She tried to teach me once— I wasn't interested." By the end of his reminiscence, Derek was already at Stiles' window, opening it once again. Instead of goodbye, Derek said, "With everything I told you, you have to believe me now about joining my pack. Scott isn't safe as a lone wolf. Talk to him."

He left before Stiles had to answer.

Stiles sighed. Trust. It was a rare commodity in Beacon Hills, but it was what he and Scott needed to ever join Derek's pack. And maybe, for some, Derek's willingness to share information would've been enough, but Stiles had been through too much to trust someone as his alpha. Not Derek, not Peter all those weeks ago, maybe not anyone. And he wasn't going to trust Derek with his best friend, not right now.

But that point was moot, because Stiles still had a different realm to pry his way into, alpha or no alpha. **  
**


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles saved and closed the document, stretched, and eyed his bed with a considering eye. It would be great for meditation, soft and inviting.

Or for falling asleep, he thought with a sigh, and settled onto the floor, his back to the wall. Twisting and turning for a bit, Stiles got into a cross-legged position that was more or less comfortable and closed his eyes. There was a thrum of anxiousness running through his body that he tried to squash. So soon after an encounter with a murderous lizard-beast, Stiles' sense of self-preservation was almost at normal levels. Whatever he told himself, he wasn't sure he was ready to encounter the next serial killer. The last encounter hadn't gone so well.

And he was annoyed, because he didn't have time for to be reluctant or scared. He didn't have time for the drowning feeling of _why did it have to be me?_

For a moment, he thought about asking Derek for help. But it wasn't like Derek would have been able to do anything; he couldn't get into the spirit world. It was all up to Stiles.

Stiles set Peter on fire once already; he could do it again.

He let that image rest on the forefront of his mind as he talked himself into clearing it. He emptied his mind of fear, of guilt, of unhappiness. The last thing to slip away was the image of Peter burning.

His head didn't fully clear. It couldn't, really. Not without a lot more practice. But he let himself focus on one single thing: his spirit animal.

 _Come out, already,_ Stiles thought.

He wasn't shy. He doubted his spirit animal, a part of his own soul, was any different. Right now, he wasn't fearful, either. There was no reason for it not to emerge. Unless Stiles wasn't really a sentinel.

That thought got discarded quickly; if he wasn't a sentinel, he will be something else. He'll be anything, to save Lydia. His thoughts swirled onto her red hair, her wit, the color of her lips. He hadn't seen them without lipstick in years. Not since they were in middle school. He remembered seeing her for the first time. He remembered meeting Scott. He remembered still believing in fairy tales.

He remembered being young—younger—stupid. Climbing a tree that was too tall, too sleek. The same one Derek climbed so easily just hours ago.

He remembered the blood all around him when he fell. He still had a long scar on his arm, now pale and faded by time. It had been darkening, a long summer day, and he wasn't noticed for too long. Except by it. He remembered being licked, remembered a weight on his body. Remembered someone seeing him and yelling.

He remembered being five years old and opening his eyes.

In tandem with his memory, Stiles opened his eyes. He wasn't five years old anymore. He didn't have an imaginary animal friend that his dad never believed in, no matter how convincingly Stiles had tried to get him to believe. He had something better: a spirit animal. It was even more nocturnal than Stiles was, more adventurous and tree-climbing, more prone to biting than his five year old self. It was Stiles, distilled.

If only it would come out.

Now, all he saw was his messy room. His body was stiff as he got up from the floor, but he didn't stretch. Stiles opened a drawer in his desk and reached back behind the mess of old papers.

 _Every boy needs a pocket knife,_ Uncle Bill had said. Stiles had never been the pocket knife sort. Too clumsy, too easily bored. It had been sentenced to the back of his closet by his dad years ago, and since then, Stiles hasn't thought of it even as a last resort. Peter would've laughed at a pocket knife. Derek would've glared it out of existence.

The knife's blade was sharp and clean as Stiles flicked it up, glinting silver against the lamplight. On an exhale, he slid it along the soft skin of his lower arm. He wasn't going for the same pain that attracted his spirit animal. Still, he needed something. A lure, a sacrifice, a plea. He knew what it was like to be unwanted, to be forgotten. However sentient his spirit animal really was, it must remember in its heart how little he'd needed it in the past. How quickly he forgot it in favor of a more human friend.

There was the scent of blood in the air and a sting in his arm. Blood ran down Stiles' skin in red rivulets, dropping onto the carpet. This time, it was his to spill.

"Come back," Stiles murmured. "You haven't been forgotten."

The next drop of blood didn't fall onto the carpet. Instead, it caught on the sleek scales that slowly emerged from nothingness.

"There you are," Stiles said, smiling. He felt whole, even if he'd never felt anything missing. Even if he now had a six foot long boa hissing at him, the snake's dark eyes slitted and intense. Stiles crouched onto the floor, his arms outstretched. More blood slipped out around him, and his shirt was going to stain, but he just reached his hand out at the hissing animal. "I remember you. Of course I remember you. I'm sorry."

He remembered being five years old and telling his dad he didn't need a pet because he had his own boa, his dad replying that there was no way he was buying a kid a snake that big. _It could crush you like a straw,_ John had said, and Stiles had just wrapped his snake around his neck in annoyed response, even if his dad couldn't see. And then he was five and a half and sick of being made fun of for still having an imaginary friend. And then he was six and making new, less real imaginary friends with a flesh and blood best friend, Scott.

And now, he was sixteen, and all he could say was, "Coming? We've got a wolf to hunt down."

The boa raised its head until it was level with Stiles' own, close enough to flick its nose with his tongue. But there was no anger in the gesture. Stiles only felt like a chastised child.

"I won't do it again," Stiles promised. When he was done with the spirit world, he'd find a way to have the boa at his side.

Stiles' body was easy prey, and the boa wrapped around it, slow enough to let him get used to its heavy weight. Stiles wondered what it meant to have such a huge, heavy animal as his spirit animal, one that no one would mistake for anything other than a predator. It wrapped around him like old times, looping around his body until its tail rested against Stiles' ankle. Then it reached back up, resting its head on his shoulder, its tongue still flicking every once in a while. Somehow, his spirit animal had felt _much_ lighter when Stiles was a kid.

"You're like, a third of my weight," Stiles muttered. "What've you been eating? Pain and suffering? You'd better not pull apart my stitches."

The boa flicked at his ear and rubbed its head against his cheek.

"Alright." Stiles took a deep breath, because nothing about the supernatural world was painless. "Take me in."

And the boa lifted its head, opened its jaws, and bit into the back of Stiles' neck.

There was barely enough time for Stiles to yelp before he saw his body falling down onto the carpet, his spirit self watching it fall, watching himself split into two. His room grew hazy around him. The colors of his previously Harry Potter-themed posters ran together in watercolor. His bedsheets were brighter than they ever were in real life, becoming a green Stiles only saw in the beginnings of spring.

His boa unlocked itself from around him, slithering easily through the closed door to Stiles' room. Stiles did the same, shivering as he passed the wood. He took the steps down two by two. Wide-eyed, he glanced around the house. It was his own, but a step to the left, as though the past and the present collided with a rainbow. On the table rested a brilliant white tablecloth that Stiles and his dad have never bothered with. On the fridge were his childhood drawings—and so were his dad's. Two generations of Stilinskis had left their marks on this house and Stiles saw it all. And at the door, there was the first bouquet his dad ever gave his mom, trampled under the footprints of a rottweiler that died before Stiles was born.

All around him was the comfort of a home Stiles hadn't felt entirely safe in for months, and now that he was away from werewolves and lizard-beasts and monsters from Derek's tales, Stiles almost didn't want to leave. His boa slithered between his legs and rested on the pillow Stiles made for it when he was five years old before continuing its journey outside. Stiles followed it. He knew that one day he'd come back, now that he knew the way.

Outside, it was a hot summer day. There wasn't a single shadow in Stiles' vision. Sweat was already threatening to appear on his brow, even as he told himself he didn't have a physical body to care about those things right now. His boa's scales glinted under the sun as they walked at a sedate pace. Now that Stiles was more attuned to the spirit world, he knew exactly where they were going.

Deep inside the preserve, there was something big and old and powerful, alive on this plane but slumbering in Stiles' own. On the way to the forest, Stiles passed storefronts that closed before his time and houses that had been demolished alongside buildings he recognized from the present. Still, it took nearly no time at all to get to the woods.

Throughout the entire walk, Stiles didn't lose the feeling of something—or somethings—watching him. It put his hair on end and caused him to grit his teeth, and he knew his boa's tongue was flicking at twice its usual rate as it searched for them by smell. Even with their enhanced senses, they couldn't find anything.

He was almost covered in sweat by the time he approached the source of power. Immense energy sifted around him, and a humongous tree rose above the rest in the midst of a clearing. Its massive trunk must've been ten of him in diameter. Its branches looked like they could hold a car. There wasn't a chainsaw in existence that wouldn't have been swallowed by it. But Stiles had no eyes except for those on the man sitting in front of the tree, crosslegged and closed-eyed. Unlike Stiles and his butchered meditation pose, Peter's bare feet rested on his thighs. A stray breeze curled his hair. Stiles didn't recognize the flowy, loose pants Peter wore, or his dark blue shirt, or the peaceful expression on his face. It was disarming to find his enemy so relaxed.

Or it would have been, if not for the heavy presence of something all around him. As he got nearer, Stiles could barely breathe through the sheer emotion spilling around him. It wasn't his own. Unless he was incredibly unaware, all Stiles felt was determination.

No, it was Peter's mind, floating free through the air around them. Peter's emotions, set loose into the air. It was terrifying. It was fascinating, too.

Around him was anger, tasting like fire inside Stiles' mouth.

But it was tinged with a great many other things, whose echoes lied inside Stiles, too: hate, tiredness, jealousy.

And wasn't anger at the core. Nor was it hate. Stiles closed his eyes to Peter's grief, clenched his fists. He moved on. There were a great many grieving people in this world. Most of them didn't go on a murder spree. But in his darker moments—and in this one, when he could feel Peter's grief for his lost family all around him—Stiles wondered if he'd do any differently if his father had died an unnatural death.

He'd wonder how much of this emotional cloud is even real, but there was something inside him that quieted the thought. Every sense—every sentinel sense that had been so quickly awakened—knew it was real. Over the past couple days, his new senses hadn't steered him wrong.

Peter's voice pulled Stiles out of the trap of his emotions. Despite the feelings raging around them, his voice was even. "She died more than twenty years ago, but my mother had a great many beliefs about the afterlife. In her words, the spirit tree welcomes all wolves, where they'll run with their pack in the afterlife for all eternity. You only need to meet one condition to be accepted: a favorable judgment from those of your pack who've already passed on."

Stiles stared at him for a long moment. Of all the things he'd thought Peter might say to him, this wasn't anywhere near the list. Eventually, he told Peter, "You don't qualify. No matter whose pack you're in. Your sister's, Laura's, Derek's... And, bullshit. Just, bullshit."

Peter opened his eyes, raising an eyebrow along with his eyelids. "Which part?"

Stiles took a moment to think about Peter's words. The actual story—the werewolfy heaven and hell mythos—was reminiscent of Derek's awkward retelling of old Hale pack values. And Peter's phrasing had fallen into an easy rhythm, like something told and retold many times. There hadn't been a hint of scorn in his voice, only a faraway quality that brought John's sad eyes to Stiles' mind. But... "You don't believe in any of it. And you certainly not trying to resurrect yourself out of _penance_. What part of killing your niece would make me believe you care about family? You don't give a shit about Derek, either. And what can you do to make up to your sister that you fucking killed her kid?"

Peter's eyes flashed, and his voice dropped to stone as he said, "I wasn't in my right mind."

Suddenly, Stiles remembered just how bad of an idea it was to antagonize a crazy werewolf. But that had never stopped him. "Is that really—"

"I'd been unable to even move for six years, most of which I was aware for, locked inside a body that felt like it was still burning to death. The only time I had enough power to even move was on full moons, and I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from killing my old child, as mad with bloodlust as I was on them."

Gritting his teeth, Stiles said, "Are you saying you're any better now?"

"I no longer want to kill innocent people, if that's what you mean. Scott's precious girlfriend and her parents safe."

"And Lydia? You've done something to her."

Idly, Peter said, "I wondered how you knew. You won't believe me, but I'm not planning to harm a hair on her head. That's not how this form of resurrection works. All I need is her as my temporary vessel. She won't even have know I'm alive again."

"You're right. I don't believe you," Stiles said. He wasn't a werewolf; he didn't know what the many kinds of thuds a heartbeat made meant. He hasn't had the time to figure it out yet. And even if he had, he wasn't in the habit of striking deals with murderous megalomaniacs.

"I don't particularly care. Do you even have a plan to stop me? I doubt you know how to destroy someone's very soul."

Stiles glanced down at his boa, whose tail was swishing in preparation to strike. It was a last resort, though, because he didn't want either part of his soul ripped apart by Peter's claws. Instead, he said, "You won't be able to move. There's mountain ash all around you."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "I doubt you believe it'll stop me."

"For long enough for me to kill you again, yeah. You'll have to give up one day."

Smirking, Peter said, "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"You're _insane_ ," was all Stiles could say. "Why the hell do you even want to live so badly? You can just run off in the afterlife all by your lonesome."

"I'm not suicidal, Stiles."

"It's not suicidal to just die when someone kills you."

"Oh it is, when you know you have a way to hold on. I'm not done with living, not anywhere close. I already missed eight years of my life. The world moved in without me. I don't even know how an iPhone works. I missed three Steven King books. I missed three funerals of people I actually gave a damn about. I missed the entirety of my early thirties. If you're under the impression that I plan to allow you—or Derek—to rob me of the rest of my life, you're more deluded than the child dallying with an Argent."

Stiles grit his teeth. Peter actually sounded reasonable, and that was the most dangerous part of this: the fact that Stiles could sympathize with him, could understand the bare bones of his motives. Still, "As if you're not planning to go after Derek. You're going to be his beta if you're ever alive again."

"I'll find another way. I have little interest in killing more of my own kin. I'm sure Derek will die of idiocy soon enough anyway, now that Laura isn't herding him around anymore." As he talked, Peter began to finally stand from his meditation pose. "I know you understand me, Stiles. I barely need to use my guide abilities to find out. We're remarkably alike."

"Yeah, because I stuff people in car trunks on a regular basis, too."

"You're resourceful. Creative. Ruthless. Not afraid of using someone's fears against them; fire was quite a way to go."

Stiles stepped back as Peter approached. With his enhanced hearing, he could even hear Peter's footsteps, the leaves he crunched underneath them. Why couldn't sentinel powers have come with super speed and strength? It wasn't like Stiles wanted to be a werewolf, but being one would've been very convenient right about now.

His boa raised its head, eyeing Peter with a predator's eyes. Stiles ran through the possibilities: no venom to poison Peter with, fast but heavy—and no chance of surprise, not with the way Peter's eyes lingered on it.

"An exquisite creature," Peter commented. "I always wondered if you might have it in you."

Claws or no claws, Stiles would bide his time until Peter was distracted. It would happen eventually. And then, all his boa needed was to get a good hold. Somehow, Stiles could do the rest. Knocking Peter out would at least give him a couple hours. Killing him... Even in his mind, Stiles shied away from the thought. He wasn't going to kill Peter. Fuck, the second that Peter killed someone who wasn't a despicable human being, Stiles would get some wolfsbane and get in line. But that hadn't happened yet. And a part of him wondered if it would happen, ever.

"You knew?"

"I thought there might be the possibility. Really, you needn't be so excitable. I'm not threatening you. I'm asking you to join me. Not as an alpha to a human, but as a guide to a sentinel." Peter didn't grasp his wrist again, but he was close enough to reach for Stiles if he wanted to.

"No," Stiles told him, again.

"Do you know what your heart says?"

"Probably something along the lines of _fuck you_. Are you going to kill me this time? Because there aren't any car trunks here."

"A pity."

Stiles laughed at the put upon remorse on Peter's face, his voice well into hysterical. "This would be so much fucking easier if I could actually trust you to not be a manipulative psychopath."

"I prefer sociopath, myself."

"That's not helping your case," Stiles told him. Not that he wanted Peter to build one. "All I care about is you getting away from Lydia. Haven't you tortured her enough? I can find a way to bring you back to life."

Peter snorted softly. "I've studied the spirit world for years and have only found one way out. Do you truly think you can find another way, having even known about this world for what, a week?"

 _Less than a day,_ Stiles wasn't about to say. "Things have changed since you died." He was about to tell him of the lizard-beast—maybe it would actually make Peter decide not to bother with the whole going back to Beacon Hills thing—but his words were stolen as he swayed on his feet.

There was something wrong, wronger than Peter, tugging at Stiles from all directions.

When he opened his mouth to say something—to warn Peter, to accuse him—it wasn't the mouth of his soul that he opened, but his body's. Back in his home in the real world, Stiles' body was flat on the ground. It took him a moment to center himself, but the moment was long enough to be hit with the lizard-beast's tail once again.

His body remembered the motion even if his soul hadn't been inside it, and Stiles knew it wasn't the first time he'd been hit.

"Finally," said a voice, without a hissing quality that Stiles would've expected from the beast. As Stiles scrambled up, he saw another person in the corner of his room, sitting in the chair Stiles vacated only minutes—hours?—ago. "I didn't think it was possible for someone to be that deep a sleeper."

"Matt?" Stiles asked, his voice rough. "What're you—" He glanced between the two and saw the way the beast stood at Matt's side, like a well-trained pet. "You're controlling it," he realized.

Matt rolled his eyes. "You know too much about the supernatural to be so dehumanizing."

Stiles recoiled. "There's a person under there?"

"Yes, though I can't say he matters. Never could stand him. Neither could you."

Stiles couldn't think of someone he hated who'd gone missing recently, but the thought of anyone at all being forced into that form made him sick. "Who—"

"—is it?" Stiles asked, in the spirit world, with Peter shaking him by the shoulders.

"Passing out is a very dire way to avoid confrontation," Peter said, once Stiles could properly focus on him.

 _I'm going to throw up,_ Stiles thought, but he didn't have a physical stomach to throw up from. He would've been swaying, but Peter's hands gripped his shoulders tightly. In any other situation, Stiles would've run, but for now he leaned in, trying not to regurgitate whatever was inside his spirit-stomach. He wondered just how revulsion would look, splattered onto Peter.

"There's a kid from my school in my room. He's controlling a giant lizard beast. And I think he's going to kill me."

"Why you?"

"Got away the first time," Stiles replied. He'd tell Peter what happened—fuck, he'd tell anyone what happened, if someone could actually make sense of it—but when he opened his mouth again it was Matt he was looking at, closer now than before.

Stiles' cheek was raw, and when he pressed his hand to it, it came back bloody.

"Is there something wrong with you, Stilinski? What's with the zoning out?"

"Head trauma," Stiles told him. "What do you want from me? I barely even know you!"

"No, but you know Derek Hale. And..." His voice grew soft. "Allison Argent."

Bells rang in Stiles' head, the creeptastic horror movie kind. From the corner of the room, Stiles' boa lunged at Matt, but its bite did nothing. In this realm, its actions were weak and ineffective. There was nothing to hold on to—it was not instinctive, like the ease with which it separated Stiles' soul—and Matt's spirit was as sleek and slippery as anything he'd ever felt.

"I thought about meeting with McCall instead, but he deserves a more... special treatment. You'll do for this one." With a nod the beast, Matt said, "Jackson. Hold him down."

Stiles didn't let himself focus on the name, instead scrambling backwards for the door. If he could only reach it— but the beast was faster, tackling him before Stiles could turn the knob. Stiles fell under its— _his_ —weight, his head hitting the door as the beast dragged him towards Matt, who was saying, "I could immobilize you... but that wouldn't be fun at all."

Stiles kicked him the entire way, and even tried to scream before the beast smacked him across the mouth with a clawed hand.

The blood dripped down, hitting the grassy ground of the forest around the nemeton.

"You've got to be able to affect the human world somehow," Stiles said, frantically.

Peter's emotions were a whirl around them, anger and confusion and utter helplessness. Stiles had a feeling that Peter could read the same on Stiles himself.

"Say the word, and I'll revive myself. With the added power of a bond, I might be able to break through the mountain ash barrier around my body. I could reach your home in minutes."

"But?"

"Lydia Martin would die. It's too early for me to do it; I won't have enough of my own energy until the full moon. I'd have to use hers."

Stiles immediately chucked that idea. Sacrificing someone was never an option. And Lydia—even if it wasn't true love, even if he didn't truly know her, not really, not from afar—had been dealt a bad enough lot in life. He and Scott had dragged her into this mess. He wasn't going to kill her, too. "No. Can your wolf do anything?"

"Not without losing my hold on the spirit world."

"I said I'd find a way to get you back. I'll do it." His heartbeat had to be true.

But Peter was hesitant, and he'd likely never trusted another person in his life.

And Stiles' vision was beginning to waver yet again.

Stiles didn't want to go back.

Fuck, he didn't want to deal with whatever twisted interrogation Matt had planned. Almost without thinking, he grasped Peter's arm, their bodies joined by more than Peter's grip on his shoulders. Peter was a guide; Stiles was a sentinel. That meant more than just having powers; there was a connection between them, a whisper of a thousand possibilities.

When Stiles was tugged back into the human world, he latched his soul to Peter's.

 _You're not taking me without him._ Stiles held on with every mental grip he had, and by the time Peter thought to pull away, the beast was right above them, holding Stiles' arms down with strong hands, its knees digging into Stiles' chest and leg.

There was nothing different about Stiles' body, but in his head, Peter's anger was like a knife. Stiles wasn't scared of it, not like he was of the two other people in the room. The beast's hard, scaly body was heavy against him, holding him down with force, not worried about cutting off Stiles' circulation. There would be bruises tomorrow. _If there is a tomorrow,_ Stiles thought as he glanced at Matt.

Matt picked up Stiles' pocketknife, the one already covered with Stiles' blood. "You're very accommodating, leaving all these weapons around. Later, I'll have you tell me where your father keeps his gun. But for now, tell me: what is Derek Hale? I've seen him near you. You're _friends_. You must know."

"He's— an asshole."

Matt shrugged. "You're probably right." And he stabbed the knife into Stiles' shoulder. "But that's not what I meant."

Peter screamed along with Stiles into the palm of the lizard-beast's scaly hand, their pain merged, their voices one. It was more pain than he'd ever been in, and he felt sick with the knowledge that it was only going to get worse. Stiles gave a smaller, gurgling scream as Matt withdrew the knife. There was a look of satisfaction on Matt's face as he stared down at the blood emerging from the wound.

 _Help me,_ Stiles thought, as loudly as he could.

 _I've withstood pain greater than this,_ Peter replied.

Matt didn't ask a question as he dipped the tip of the knife back inside the wound, just enough to leave a mark as he sliced down along Stiles' skin. The lizard-beast removed his hand from Stiles' mouth to rip his shirt, but the hand was back before Stiles could do more than take a deep breath.

Peter's attempt at comfort— _don't get hysterical, it'll only make it worse_ —didn't help.

Stiles clenched his eyes shut and thought of Britain and tried not to hyperventilate, but it wasn't working. He couldn't breathe through his mouth and his nose was bruised. Matt had probably landed a hit on him there, too, while Stiles was in the spirit world.

 _Dammit, Peter,_ Stiles thought. _If you don't help me, I'm going to ruin you._

He couldn't see what Matt was doing, but he screamed once more as a new pain overtook him. Peter screamed with him, loud and angry and tired of the pain. Stiles had never been so in tune with another's emotions; this close to one another, they felt the same thing, their emotions in harmony.

 _You will bring me back to life,_ Peter said, a promise and a threat and a plea.

Stiles gave him his assent through feelings, in the most purest way. And then he opened his eyes.

"I think you can tell I'm serious now," Matt told him.

Next to Matt stood Peter's wolf, and coiled behind him was Stiles' boa.

_We'll need to imitate a bond. It shouldn't be hard, considering you've dragged me inside you._

_Alright,_ Stiles thought, using all his mental capacity to cling to Peter. It wasn't difficult; Peter was, quite literally, wrapped up in his soul. Peter echoed his motions, and Stiles felt too full, overflowing with the strength of this temporary bond and the two souls inside his body. _What now?_

_The sociopath or the lizard?_

_The lizard,_ Stiles thought. _Matt's only human. But Jackson might eat me if he's left without a handler._ This close, the lizard-beast's excited breath was terrifying, and so was the way its eyes were drawn to Stiles' blood. Stiles really, really hoped it was the effect of a lizard brain and the bond to a sociopath, and not Jackson's true nature. He'd always thought of Jackson as an asshole, not a possible murderer.

Peter's wolf spirit pounced, grabbing hold of the lizard-beast's thigh. The beast only twitched, unable to feel the spiritual attack. But when Stiles' boa joined in, sinking its teeth into the back of the beast's neck and the true tugging began, the beast roared. Jackson thrashed, resisting, and for the first time in his life Stiles realized what it was to separate the soul from an unwilling body.

It was so nearly murder. It was the only thing he could do. He'd make it up to Jackson, somehow.

"Stop that—" Matt said, but the beast snapped its jaws at him, releasing its hold on Stiles' body in its fear and pain.

Within seconds, the beast collapsed, its soul now taken into the spirit world. After a tense moment, their spirit animals unhinged their jaws from the beast, eyeing it warily for a moment in case its soul returned.

Stiles pushed himself up from the floor with the arm that hadn't been stabbed. Licking his bruised lips, he said, "You should've asked what I was, instead." There was no outward indicator of something supernatural about Stiles. No claws, no wickedly long teeth, no glowing eyes. Only a body that looked dead next to his own, having turned back into its human form once its soul escaped, and a steely determination behind his eyes. "You're next."

Matt didn't call his bluff, grabbing his camera and throwing open the door. "I'll figure you out. I don't need to be a monster myself to kill you."

Peter rolled his eyes mentally as Matt fled. _We could take him._

 _But not right now,_ Stiles replied, sliding back onto the floor. No matter how much their temporary bond had increased their powers, forcibly removing Jackson's soul from his body had taken almost more than Stiles had to give. They were exhausted, and their spirit animals were no better. The floor was inviting, the carpet soft, and Stiles figured he could stay there, just a bit. But first, Stiles stretched his hand toward Jackson's body, grabbing his hand to make sure he had a pulse. Now that his high school nemesis didn't look like a lizard-beast, Stiles had trouble believing it had even been him. Just what had Jackson gotten into, to become this?

Before he could fully lose consciousness, Stiles reached into his pocket for his phone and pressed down onto Favorite #1.

"Sheriff Stilinski," his dad answered, absently.

Stiles could almost see him in the station, busy poring over the arrest records of anyone who'd been arrested for a violent crime and had some kind of science background. "Hey, Dad? I'm at home. I need an ambulance. I—It's Matt Daehler, the person who's killing people."

John cursed and yelled for his deputies. "It's on its way. Tell me what happened," his father said, his tone as far from professional as it'd ever been.

"He stabbed me, Dad. In the shoulder." And no matter how much Stiles tried to keep his voice steady, he was already shaking all over. Shock, probably. It felt so mundane when there were psychopaths and lizard-beasts running around. Actually... "Jackson's here too. He tried to help me, but Matt paralyzed him."

"Jackson Whittemore?"

"I know. But we're cool now. Bonding over mutual torture and all that jazz." By the end, Stiles' voice was slurred. He tried to make it better, but it just came out worse. "I wanted to call sooner. I did."

"I know, son."

"I think I can hear the sirens."

"They're not close enough yet. Stiles, listen to me. You need to stop the blood. Can you do that?"

Stiles pressed his hand against his shoulder, but it made it hard to talk. The phone slipped out of his hand, falling onto his chest. He could hear his dad's tinny voice, reassuring and strong. He wasn't going to die; Stiles knew that almost for sure. It was only a shoulder wound. No matter how much shock he went into, no matter the pain... Stiles wasn't going to die yet. And if he did, he could probably pull a Peter.

 _Not without a lot more training,_ Peter thought.

"It's just a flesh wound," Stiles said, as loudly as he could. "Feel bad about taking up Melissa's time."

"You know she's always happy to see you," John replied.

"Yeah. Scott's going to be so pissed at me. Got into trouble all on my own, without him."

Stiles held on until the sounds of the ambulance were deafening and someone slammed open the front door. Then he nudged his boa. As gently as it could, it bit into the back of his neck, carrying both him and Peter back into the spirit world.

.

Stiles stumbled until he was sitting with his back against the nemeton, Peter slumped beside him. The tree's bark was hard against his back, but there was a soothing hum of power inside it that helped. Peter's emotions were quiet for the time being, the man not broadcasting his power quite so thoroughly anymore. There was no need; as closely as they were joined moments before, Stiles had learned the ebb and flow of his emotions.

Stiles inhaled the dry summer air, exhaled. Inhaled, exhaled.

Slowly, his clothes lost their bloodstains and rips, transforming back into his favorite worn Batman shirt and jeans. He was here in spirit. The real world had no place here.

Inhaled, exhaled. He could need physical therapy. What if Matt hit something important? Fractured collarbones are a pain in the ass, and he wasn't a werewolf like the rest of his friends. He wouldn't heal as easily; maybe not at all, depending on how much the hospital could prevent scarring.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Spoke.

"Thank you, for what you did." Stiles turned a miniscule amount, barely wanting to budge, to finally look over at Peter at his right. The other man looked as tired as he did, sitting there against the nemeton.

Peter inclined his head. "Like I said: you're ruthless. You saw an opportunity to strong-arm me into saving you, in order to save myself."

"Are you angry?"

"Only if you go back on your word."

Stiles still didn't trust him. But he understood him now, and that was enough to give him steady ground.

There was something about Peter that called to Stiles, and it wasn't the urge to light him on fire again. (It wouldn't ever be, not again, because Stiles did it once that that's enough guilt for him. Stiles lit a victim of a house fire aflame and it doesn't matter that he was a murderer many times over. There are some things you don't do, some lines you don't cross.) Maybe it was a feeling of kinship between a sentinel and a guide. Maybe Peter was right, and they were simply very alike. Whatever it was, Stiles knew he'd made his choice.

It could still all go down in flames, but for now, Stiles said, "I'm going to resurrect you. I know how now, I think. We'll have to undo our temporary bond afterwards."

"As long as you do it quickly. I won't enjoy spending an extended time in your body," Peter replied, his nose slightly curled.

"Fuck off. I'm helping you, aren't I? Out of my own free will."

"You could do it with an expectation of increasing your power. True sentinel and guide partnerships are very rare. With practice, we could extend our range of power over the entirety of Beacon Hills... and beyond."

"And go insane when our brains can't handle the overload."

"Becoming a werewolf would help."

"World domination isn't my thing, either way." But, rubbing the lingering phantom pain in his shoulder, "I wouldn't mind the healing factor." Stiles knew he never would, not unless his life was on the line—just turning into a sentinel was bad enough—but, "Derek can take care of it for me if I ever decide to."

"You'd be his beta?" Peter asked, sounding insulted.

"No," Stiles replied. Because even though Derek was a comparatively the best alpha he'd met, that wasn't saying much. Derek hadn't murdered anyone—other than Peter and apparently that hadn't stuck—but he'd strung them along for weeks by not bothering to actually say he was innocent of Laura's murder, or that there was someone else they had to watch out for. He got pissy when Scott didn't join his pack, and had bitten even more high schoolers to make up for it. Neither was Stiles a fan of being pushed into walls or steering wheels. That said, Derek was kind of hilarious (especially when he didn't mean to be), a good source of information when he actually opened his mouth, and maybe one day, a friend. Stiles just didn't want him as his alpha.

Maybe Derek had the capacity to be a great alpha. But so far, Stiles hadn't seen it. Maybe Peter had the same capacity, buried under revenge and murder sprees. Stiles wasn't going to hold his breath. Frankly, he wasn't sure any of the werewolves he knew were very good alpha candidates. He wondered what that said about the people he surrounded himself with.

"I wouldn't be yours, either," Stiles added, just in case Peter took his words as a convoluted withdrawal of his refusal of Peter's bite. "You're not insane anymore." Spending time so completely merged with Peter had cleared that up. "And... you're not completely awful, with saving me and all. But I don't want to be under someone else's will."

"I was a beta for most of my life; it was hardly servitude. I don't miss it, but... An alpha's power doesn't give one everything. Neither does a sentinel's."

"It'll narrow the gap." Just enough, just to be able to do more than merely survive in this crazy, monster-filled world. Stiles wanted to thrive. "Can you teach me to be a sentinel? Even though you're a guide?"

"Are you sure you should trust me?"

There was always Blair and the other sentinels he'd spoken of. Stiles was sure at least one of them would've been interested in training him. But they were on another line, in another world, where werewolves and lizard-beasts and the entire supernatural realm didn't exist. "No, but I'm pretty sure I can trust your self-interest. You still think I'll bond with you one day, right?"

"It's not outside the realm of possibility."

"...no, it isn't."

"Oh, Stiles. I do like you. My first lesson will be learning to properly lie to a werewolf, and being able to discover for yourself when people lie."

"Hmph." But Stiles had to wonder, had his heartbeat betrayed him? Because with this mess of a situation, Stiles wasn't so sure anymore. Just a day ago, he would've resolutely said no. But now, Peter wasn't the worst possible option. He could even be the best. "It'll have to be while we're on the move. We need to find Jackson as soon as possible. Dad's probably put a guard on my body at the hospital, so it'll be safe for a while, but not forever. We have to get to Jackson before Matt gets to us. Blair—er, he's this guide in Washington—"

"He wrote a failed PhD draft and a couple children's novels on the sentinel concept, yes."

"Does everyone know who he is?"

"He and his partner are the chairs of the Sentinel/Guide Council—which is made up of basically all the sentinels and guides in the world. We're not a huge population, after all."

Stiles made a face. "I wish that've come up in a search engine. It would've made things a lot easier." And then he thought about Peter, who must've become a sentinel even before the internet was so massive. "How did you find out what you were?"

"I bought a spellbook from a group of travelling witches," Peter said, somewhat nostalgically. "It was the only one they could be persuaded to part with; damaged goods, they'd called it. It was missing half its pages, with only a way to get into a little-known place called the spirit world made clear."

"You didn't."

"I snuck inside and was lost here for nearly a year. It's never been proven that bloodline is what gives one the potential to be a sentinel or guide. Sandberg believes it to be an imprint on one's soul from the reincarnation cycle. Clearwater won't shut up about it being only for people with a unique amount of courage. In any case, I was not one of those people. But, if one spends long enough in this world, they'll be changed. I awakened my spirit guide and guide powers here, and eventually made my way out."

"No one's ever allowed to say I'm reckless again," Stiles said, a bit stricken by awe. He reminded himself that Peter was an asshole and a liar, but even so, he couldn't think of a reason for him to lie, not about this. "I bet your parents were pissed."

"They were gone by then, but Talia nearly bit me," Peter replied, looking pleased. His smile turned quiet as he said, "Laura actually did."

Not wanting the mention of dead Hales to stunt the conversation, like it had so many times with Derek, Stiles steered them away. "If you were able to come here, why didn't you just shack up here while you were in the coma?" It could've done a lot of good, had Peter had a place to escape to.

"I assume I lacked a certain mental control to enter."

Well, Stiles was generally in favor of barring murderous megalomaniacs entry to places. He couldn't argue with the spirit world trying to do the same. "Does that mean the rest of the sentinel/guide community is also completely insanity-free?"

"Meeting Sandberg should cure you of that idea. He hasn't left the early nineties, slang or fashion-wise. What did you want to say about him, earlier?"

"I'll need to call him in a few hours. I told him I was going into the spirit world, which is when he said I'd better check in within twenty-four hours."

"Nosy bastard. As a former detective, his partner is even worse. My coma years were wonderfully free of them, which is all I can say in favor of not being able to move a single body part."

Eventually, they reached the edge of the Beacon Hills preserve, finding themselves on the edge of the town proper. Stiles stopped next to the sign, slipping his boa onto the ground again. It tasted the air around them, but when Stiles gave it a questioning look, it didn't continue to slither. Jackson's scent was long gone, and the only reason they came this way was because Jackson may have acted on his emotional connection to Beacon Hills. If they were really lucky, he'd only gone home.

"I can't hear him at all," Stiles admitted. He still hadn't learned to adjust his senses, or whatever sentinels did to use their senses fully.

"Neither do I. He could be too far away... or the spirit world may be interfering with our senses." Continuing walking down the road to Beacon Hills proper with more wariness, Peter added, "This place is too quiet. We haven't been attacked by a single spirit, nor encountered any creatures with imprints in this world. It isn't right."

It was a trip, to walk through Beacon Hills in search of Jackson's home. Stiles knew exactly where it was (it was a fact of the universe that the Whittemore home was egged at least once a year, by totally unknown delinquents who in no way resembled Stiles, Scott, and anyone else Jackson was attempting to bully recently), but in this strange version of the town, it took much longer to walk there. Houses long demolished appeared side by side with ones still standing; one house stretched nearly a whole block, beginning with its original design, and decade-by-decade renovation. From vague history lessons, Stiles remembered it as one of the first ones built in the town, long before Beacon Hills bore its name. But there were no living ghosts, making Stiles wonder if Blair had been mistaken when he'd warned Stiles of the nightmares lurking on this plane. Or, if all of Beacon Hills' nightmares simply preferred the human world instead.

The moment they stepped inside Jackson's house, Stiles knew they'd find nothing. Even without his enhanced sense of hearing and without Peter's werewolf senses, the house just looked to undisturbed. The front door had even been locked, though Stiles managed to find a key under a flower pot before Peter could just break the lock.

Once inside, they did a cursory check, Stiles taking the first floor while Peter took the upper one. All he found were some incredibly kitschy decorations, which while not Jackson's, at least proved that Jackson came by his bad taste naturally. He'd probably just received an amplified bad taste gene.

But that just made Stiles wonder how Jackson was a lizard-beast—was it genetics, or some kind of supernatural heritage awakening?—because as Allison-focused as his best friend was, Scott would've told him if there was something fishy about Jackson. He was a bro like that.

When Peter came downstairs again, Stiles was exploring the Whittemores' fridge, which was filled entirely with someone's favorite type of wine, strawberry milkshakes, and blueberries.

"I bet all these blueberry are his favorite food," Stiles said, having seen Jackson eating them on occasion, back in middle school when it was still cool for parents to pack your lunch. Turning toward Peter, he wondered how he could find a way for the blueberry Jackson ate to be covered in hot sauce. And then he felt kind of bad, what with the Jackson having been mind controlled into murdering people thing. There was also the terrible possibility that they wouldn't find Jackson at all, leaving his body to stay slumped in a coma-like state forever.

A small noise in the otherwise silent house diverted Stiles' attention. The noise continued: footsteps coming closer to the house, turning toward them instead of continuing walking along the sidewalk. For lack of anything else, Stiles grabbed a knife from the counter. Even if it was only Jackson coming by, he couldn't be sure that Jackson was in his right mind. Stiles' wasn't planning on being caught off-guard and defenseless yet again.

Almost simultaneously, Stiles and Peter's heads turned toward the door. But it wasn't Jackson whose body appeared behind the glass screen, but a young woman's. Stiles got an even better look at her as she opened the screen and stepped inside, her voice strong as she said, "I heard you two needed some help."

She was dressed in a sleek black suit, tailored to her tall, broad-shouldered figure, but her hair was loose and tangled, tumbling down her shoulders. The old-fashioned gun she was holding fit her appearance even less. Despite her memorable features, Stiles had a hard time trying to figure out where he knew her from. Was she Jackson's really young-looking mom? His never talked about older sister? She looked... oddly familiar.

He looked over at Peter, who didn't seem to be having the same problem.

Peter's face was ashen, his body leaning subtly against the wall. He'd recognized the woman at once.

Stiles didn't lower his knife.

"You know where we can find Jackson?" Stiles asked, carefully glancing between the two.

"I sent my spirit guide off after him. She found him by in the field over by the high school," the woman told him, not looking at Stiles. Her blue eyes were locked on Peter's.

"What are you doing here?" Peter finally asked, pushing himself from the wall and walking a step closer. "I've been here in the spirit world for over a month. I haven't seen you even once. I thought you'd moved on."

"I wasn't sure what to say," the woman said, her voice oddly gentle. "But now that you're leaving, I think I could scrounge something up."

Once they stood across from each other, Stiles realized there was no one the woman could be other than Laura Hale. Stiles had only seen her dead and covered in dirt, but now she was as alive as Peter. Their eyes were the same color blue. Laura's hair had Peter's curls, and nearly Peter's color. And with the way they stared at the other, Stiles couldn't tell if it was a hug or a fight that would soon break out.

Peter's emotional cloud was completely locked down, despite the emotions flickering through his face. It was proof enough of the earlier show being manipulative, if still real. _Asshole,_ Stiles thought, not really mad. It was hard to be mad when Peter was staring at Laura like she was God and the devil all wrapped up in a taco. There was something broken in Peter's expression as he stared at her, something that made Stiles want to look away. He won't—he never will, not with Peter—but the urge was hard to swallow down. Peter's story... It hadn't felt real to him, but now he realized just how true at least a part of it was.

"Well? Get on with it," Peter said. "I heard you became a lawyer. Is your public speaking still so bad?"

Stiles would've intervened, if only to repay a favor and make sure Peter didn't get himself murdered, except Peter's voice was so hoarse that his words lacked any kind of bite.

"Better than yours," Laura replied. "I beat your LSAT score."

"All the better then, my eliminating the competition." Peter's back was ramrod straight; he was waiting for claws, for a slap.

Instead, Laura hugged him, and the only hurt he got was what looked like the strongest, most werewolf strength enhanced hug Stiles had ever seen. "God, I hate you."

Peter's arms were tight around her, his lips an inch from her ear as he said, barely audibly, "I'm sorry. I am."

"Not good enough. That's never going to be good enough. You killed me—do you know how much it hurt— _Peter_."

"I know," Peter said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know. I was moon-mad and otherwise insane at the time, if that counts."

"It doesn't," Laura replied, but she only hugged him more tightly, and then let go, her hands reluctantly sliding off Peter. "I'm not forgiving you."

"I don't expect you to. But come back with me. You can't stay in this dreary place forever. I know a way to return back to life," Peter said, glancing back at Stiles.

As they both turned fully toward him, Stiles finally lowered his knife, and said, "I'm Stiles Stilinski. Nice to meet you, under, uh, better circumstances."

Belatedly, he realized he should've probably left the last part off, but Laura only snorted.

"Laura Hale. I doubt I look any better now."

"You do," Stiles assured her. "I mean, you're no longer in pieces."

"Small favors." She turned toward Peter. "Did you rip me in half?"

"I also painted our family's symbol for revenge in your blood," Peter said, helpfully.

Laura nodded thoughtfully. "At least you sent the message the proper way."

 _I'm surrounded by crazy people,_ Stiles thought.

"Are you his beta?" Laura asked, her eyes running down Stiles as if looking for signs of wolfishness.

"No," Stiles replied.

She furred her brow. "His lover?"

" _No_." This time, the word came from Peter. "He's a sentinel. I'm... mentoring him." Quickly, he added, "We're only temporarily bonded. Stop jumping to conclusions. You're worse than Derek."

"I'm only trying to find out why a teenage boy you didn't know before the fire came all the way into the spirit world in order to rescue you," Laura said, shrugging. "Knowing you, I'm betting blackmail."

"We could've become friends," Stiles said, even though the argument was dubious. He didn't even know why he was trying to defend Peter to the niece he'd killed. Stockholm Syndrome, definitely. (Or just that look on Peter's face when he first saw Laura, of which a version still hadn't left his eyes.) But, he clarified, "I came here to kill him. I thought he was going to resurrect himself by killing my friend."

"Temporary spirit animal binding?" Laura's eyes met Peter's, who nodded. "It doesn't work like that. Would've made her temporarily a bit crazy, but not dead."

Peering dubiously at her, Stiles said, "Good to know, but... Aren't you angry? At all?"

Stiles doubted he could ever have the sense of self and forgiveness to actually forgive a person who murdered him. Maybe Peter wasn't the ultimate evil, but he was still the man who murdered her, and the man who she hugged so tightly.

"Being stranded here for months in death has given me some perspective," Laura said. "There's not much to do around here. Just some light housekeeping—" Stiles eyed her gun, but didn't argue if she that was wanted to call keeping the spiritual echo of Beacon Hills in line "—and, Peter's going to spend his whole life making my untimely death up to me."

"I don't suppose I have a say in this?"

"None at all. What do you say, Stiles?"

Stiles glanced between them. At Peter, whose face was only beginning to regain its color, who was an unrepentant murderer. At Laura, who looked like a madwoman on a rampage, who probably had as many skeletons in her closet as the other Hales.

"Yeah, I'll take you with me," Stiles said.

The thankfulness in Peter's eyes made the decision nearly unregrettable. Because Stiles had held his very soul inside him, and he knew the weight Laura's revival would remove from Peter's shoulders.

Laura was the first to leave the Whittemore's empty house, and Stiles followed her, but on his way out, he wordlessly clasped Peter's shoulder for a moment. He wasn't sure how to give comfort to Peter Hale or if he even wanted to (but, just maybe, that was a lie), but Peter's shoulder loosened under Stiles' hand, the low thrum of chaotic emotions running through Stiles from the contact cooling a little.

Laura must've been Peter's sentinel, Stiles realized. That meant that there hadn't been any need to worry about being magically accidentally bound to Peter. Unlike whatever Blair had said, Stiles' sentinel powers hadn't popped up in response to Peter. There was another guide out there for Stiles, one who wasn't this man before him. Stiles called the feeling in his chest that arose from the thought relief.

"Are you two going to bond?" Stiles asked, softly, not wanting to be heard by the woman waiting for them outside.

Peter was slow to shake his head. "I don't think it's even possible. We could probably still create a pack bond, but... I killed her. And that's not something this world forgets."

"You could still try."

Peter hummed. "And of course, she's still my rebellious, domineering niece. Derek only got along with her because he was too used to being pushed around."

"You're ridiculous," Stiles said. "She seemed perfectly nice. Too nice, what with just about forgiving you."

"I'm sure it'll involve more than my apology for her to forgive me. Blood, sweat, and imported chocolates will only be the beginning."

"It was your own choice to resurrect her," Stiles told him.

"And yours. But don't worry, she'll be trying not to antagonize my future bondmate."

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to bond with you just because you're the only guide in town."

With a quirk of his lips, Peter said, "You're my second choice anyway."

"Liar." The instinctive knowledge settled in his chest, chasing out the strange possessiveness Stiles had felt when he'd thought Peter and Laura would bond.

Peter huffed a breath. "Quite possibly. Let's go, or we'll never find our way out of this place."


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Stiles and Peter walked out of the house, Laura's gun was clean and shining. The cloth she'd used to wipe it down was stained with a dusky red color that made Stiles wonder if spirits could actually bleed.

Catching him looking at it, Laura said, "Sometimes they need a little more of a push than bullets."

It wasn't exactly comforting. But then, nothing about the spirit world was.

"Your friend," Laura began. "Do you know what he is?"

Stiles shrugged. "Some kind of werelizard? I haven't had much time to research him—a quick search came up with nothing and the rest of the time I was too busy trying to stay alive. Are you saying you know?"

"He's a kanima."

Peter looked thoughtful as he said, "Are you sure? Those are... exceedingly rare." To Stiles, he said, "Most bitten humans turn into werewolves without any complications. A small percentage die during the turning—"

"We've had one possible member who died," Laura cut in, her expression unreadable, but her eyes fixed on Peter's for a long moment. "But a miniscule percentage don't reject the bite by dying. They become something else. I dealt with one back in New York; it was the first case in a hundred years."

"Is it a genetics thing?" Stiles asked. "What happens if someone who has another creature's blood gets turned?"

Laura shrugged. "Nothing, usually. If the bite's especially deep, they might bleed out, but it generally doesn't take. Mom called kanimas moral failures—people whose minds and souls couldn't take the change into a werewolf."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Talia had a talent for the overdramatic. There's instability in everyone. Hell, if emotional issues were all it took to become a kanima, Deucalion would have a pack of lizards following behind him. I don't know what makes a kanima, but I know no one else does, either."

"If you don't have an answer, don't call the only answer we have a lie," Laura said, rolling her eyes and sounding like she was rehashing an old argument. At Peter's huff, she added, "And there is something unstable about him. That kind of thing causes waves here in the spirit world."

"Or it could be the fact that he's a kanima, and those rarely leave any kind of good imprint."

"Or Jackson's just a jackass," Stiles muttered. But... "He's not that unstable. Not more than any teenager."

"You included?"

"Oh, I'm definitely included."

"Agreed," Peter said, thoughtfully. "I have a vague memory of him, but to all my senses, he was a strong teenager. I would've thought he'd take the bite well."

"Did you bite him?"

Peter shook his head. "I only bit Scott. It went badly enough that I decided to give myself time before trying again, despite the loss of the power and stability betas bring. I didn't need much power to kill humans, anyway."

"Must've been Derek," Stiles mused. He wished he'd thought to ask Derek about what he'd done with his teeth lately. "But his werewolf mojo is fine. He bit two others and they became normal werewolves, with fur and assholery and all."

It must've been something wrong with Jackson.

Stiles wasn't sure what to think, if he was honest. Jackson had been a bully and a blight on Stiles' life for the past couple years, but he'd never been a huge figure in it. And now, there were so many things that Stiles had to care about that Jackson just didn't make the cut.

By the time they reached the high school, Stiles was no closer to an answer.

Like all things in the spirit world, the high school looked different than it had this morning. Gone were all signs of life: no students, no teachers, no creepy new principle. They didn't have to even step inside. Stiles heard something from out back and knew with total certainty that it was coming from the lacrosse field. Jackson had always been overly competitive. It looked like he wasn't any better in spirit form.

A bird landed on Laura's arm as they walked. It was large, with dark wings, a white-winged chest, and sharp yellow eyes.

"Maes," she said, approvingly. "Thank you."

"You named yours?" Stiles asked. To him, his boa felt like a part of himself, separated from his body; if he had to name it anything, it would just be his own name.

Laura nodded. "I've been here for quite some time. There wasn't really anything else to do. And then it stuck. He's an osprey."

The bird made small sounds as they walked that Laura returned with a grin.

It could've been comic, the scene they approached: a lizard-beast standing on two legs, dressed in jeans and a polo, practicing throwing lacrosse balls at a marked post. But Jackson's shoulders were shaking, his form was all wrong, and Stiles found himself in the uncomfortable position of pitying someone he hated.

When it looked like Jackson wasn't going to turn around, Stiles called out to him. "Hey!" He bypassed Peter and Laura, who looked like they'd decided to hang back and let the person who actually knew Jackson have a go at this. Whatever _this_ was. Stiles needed to try. "Jackson."

Jackson aimed another lacrosse ball at the net. In seconds, it tore through it and disappeared out into the field. "I'm a bit busy."

"Suit yourself. It's only your life on the line." Stiles rested his hands in his pockets and watched Jackson throw another two balls.

"Can I die here?" Jackson eventually asked, not looking at Stiles.

"Yeah. Peter can tell you how, I think."

Two more throws. "So? Tell me."

"No fucking way," Stiles said, even as Laura and Peter walked toward him. And then he repeated it to Peter, in case he thought it was even an option.

"You gonna take my choices away, too?"

"Fuck you."

"I killed people," Jackson said, with more emotion than Stiles had ever heard in his voice running through the words.

"So have I, but you don't see me cowering under the lacrosse bleachers," Peter spoke up.

"Not helping," Stiles muttered. "Look, Jackson, I get you're feeling guilt for the first time in your life—"

"Do you fucking understand what I said? I _murdered_ them. I tore them apart with my claws. I— I don't deserve to go back. What if I do it again?"

"You won't," Laura said. "I can transfer your bond from Matt to someone else. You won't be free, but you won't be following a murderer's orders anymore either. And after, I can contact the Edison tribe—they had a kanima in their pack a century ago—and see if they found a way to transform a kanima into a werewolf. It'll be the easiest to connect you to Stiles."

"I'm not listening to his orders," Jackson snarled.

"Are you really saying I'm worse than the guy making you to kill people?"

"What about him?" Jackson asked, turning toward Peter.

"Not happening," Stiles said before Peter could. "I am not giving a different serial killer his own obedient murder toy."

"I'm not—"

"You don't trust me with this young man?"

"It won't work, anyway," Laura cut in. "Peter and I, we're not alive, in the strictest sense of the word. There's a chance the bond might not hold."

Jackson glared at her. "Who said I need to be bound to anyone at all? I like it here. I'm staying."

"I'm going to punch you again," Stiles muttered.

"I barely even felt it that time," Jackson replied.

"You remember?"

Jackson turned away. "Not usually. I think I can now just because I'm in this fucking form. I couldn't remember anything before." Quickly, as though he thought they'd judge him, Jackson added, "But I knew something went wrong. I'd be a fucking idiot not to. I thought Derek could help. Went to his burned down shack and got chased away by Allison's dad."

"You didn't go to Scott?" At Jackson's look, Stiles sighed. "Yeah. You wouldn't."

Jackson shifted his grip on the lacrosse stick. He threw it and caught it in his other hand. "It's not bad here."

"Take it from me, it's not a very good vacation spot," Laura said. "There's no wifi. No TV." Her voice was soft as she said, "No parents. No girlfriend. No friends."

"I'm adopted, Lydia and I broke up, Danny hasn't been himself this month. Next?"

"That's because he's been worried as fuck about you."

"Then it's better I not be around to paralyze him again in the future."

"I think I liked you better when you were a selfish asshole," Stiles told him.

"You _dick_." Jackson looked like he was on the verge of hysterics. "Why do you even want to save me?"

"Beacon Hills wouldn't be itself without you." And... "Dammit, Jackson, I don't hate you _that_ much. I'm not going to let you ruin your life over something that wasn't ever your fault. Even if it means you go back to Lydia. Just—come on, Jackson."

"There's something wrong with you," Jackson told him, in between shaky breaths. It took him a minute to compose himself, and when he talked next, his voice was stronger. Nowhere near the confidence he'd had a few months ago, but better. "What do I need to do?"

"Repeat after me," Laura said, and began to speak in a language Stiles didn't have a hope of recognizing. The only thing he recognized was his name.

"Do you need my full one?" he asked, when Laura finished.

"No. I only needed what you know yourself as." To Jackson, she said, "Are you ready?"

Jackson nodded. He faced Stiles. "If you make me do something I wouldn't already do, I'll find a way to murder you."

And Jackson began to speak.

The words weren't lyrical and the speech wasn't long, but Stiles was still lulled into a haze.

When he opened his eyes, Stiles wasn't exactly himself anymore. Sure, he was still an overactive high schooler, nearly straight A's, ADD meds, best friend to a werewolf, mediocre at best lacrosse player. That wasn't the parts that changed. But there was a presence inside him, around him, clenching his soul like the most seductive siren.

There was a man Stiles could do anything he wanted with. He could tell Jackson to jump off a cliff and Jackson would, as long as he was in his lizard form. In his human form, he was suggestible but still himself, but as a kanima... Stiles could barely bear the heady power that coursed through him. This was even more than awakening his sentinel powers. This was the ability to control a human being with just one word.

Stiles opened his eyes to Laura's too blank expression, to Peter's raised eyebrow, to Jackson's unexpressive scaly face. And he began to laugh uncontrollably, because if he didn't, he thought he might cry.

So this was what it was like, to know he was corruptible. He'd always known he wasn't a ray of sunshine, that he was a little off kilter, but this... god, the things he could do with Jackson.

Stiles felt sick. Too much power. Definitely too much power.

"I'm going to throw up," he said, once he found his voice.

"I'm not sure that's even possible here, but you can try," Laura said.

After a long moment of staring at the grass and waiting for the nausea to pass, Stiles managed to look up and say, "Jackson, as soon as we're getting back to the human world, you're going to tell me who you most trust in the world, and I'm transferring this bond as fast as fuck. I can't even—you need to trust that person, alright? You need to trust them so much."

"Lydia," Jackson said with only a word.

Stiles could make it so that Lydia wasn't even a blip on Jackson's radar, could make him forget her completely. They'd already broken up with no thanks to him, but he could make it so that they never got together again. It would be for the best. Lydia didn't love Jackson and Jackson was an utter asshole who didn't deserve her. He could make things so much better than they were.

"Good. I hope she agrees, because I'm not keeping you," Stiles told him, and if it came out harsh, he was going to blame it on the awful, dazzling beat of power inside him. It hurt, but, "I don't trust myself that much."

Looking past Jackson, he caught a fleeting moment of surprise cross Peter's face. It was quickly gone, and instead the man said, "Too hard? I could always give it a try."

"Easy as pie," Stiles replied, pushing every insistent thought of ownership he could aside. He still had the bone-deep knowledge that he could control Jackson, but looking at Peter—at a man who was no stranger to loss of control—Stiles tried to grasp to his morals.

 _Scott would be so ashamed of you,_ he told himself. It didn't work nearly as well as he hoped.

But there were bigger things at stake, because fuck, if he harmed a hair on Jackson's already messed up head, he'd be ashamed of himself more than anyone else. He wouldn't be fit as a human being, and even less so a sentinel. He wanted to be a good sentinel, not whatever one could be when gone power-mad. And it was insane, but he didn't want it only for himself.

Stiles held his hand out. "Come on. Lydia's probably crying over your unconscious body. Let's not keep her waiting."

And Jackson took it. "Thanks. For all this crap."

"It's what I do now, apparently."

Stiles grasped Peter with his available hand, Laura took hold of Peter's and Jackson's hands, and Stiles hoped he could actually do this. Because he wasn't leaving without taking all of them. He didn't like Jackson, he used to hate Peter, he didn't know Laura, but they were coming with him, whether the spirit world liked it or not.

His boa wrapped around their circle, weaving in between their legs.

Stiles imagined the plummet down to the real world.

He thought about being able to touch things and know they were really there. He thought about their souls merging as he'd done with Peter just a little while ago.

And after a long moment, it clicked in his head, and they came tumbling down to earth.

.

Stiles opened his eyes in the hospital, again.

There was still no one in his room, but inside his head, there was a whole crowd. Stiles managed to force himself out of the hospital bed only through force of will and focusing on the jumble of thoughts inside his head instead of on the pain his body was in. His back had been bandaged again, his shoulder hurt like nothing else, and it felt like his body hadn't slept in days. His headmates weren't very sympathetic.

 _There isn't even enough room to breathe in here,_ Laura was complaining.

 _I could be permanently damaged by having my soul so compressed,_ Peter added.

_Yeah, what the fuck. You're a lacrosse player. You couldn't have beefed up some more? I'm suffocating in here._

_I'm going to murder all of you,_ Stiles replied, woozily getting onto his feet. He held onto the bed and the counter, waiting for nearly a full minute before he trusted himself to walk again.

When he opened his door, there was a guard standing right outside.

"Stiles!" Deputy Thompson said. "I'm so glad you're awake, but get the hell back into that bed."

"I need to see Jackson," Stiles rasped. He tried to make his voice sound a bit less like he was on death's door, and added, "Please. Is he alright?"

"He's just fine, still sleeping in room 108—"

"Thanks," Stiles said, already turning around.

The deputy sighed. And then she very carefully helped Stiles keep himself upright as he swayed in the general direction of room 108. Admittedly, he may have had too high of an estimation of how easy it would be to walk off a stab wound on whatever drugs were currently running through his body. There had to be a lot; even his senses had been dulled considerably. Stiles was glad of it. He barely had enough brainpower to process the other people in his head, let alone everything else that was happening in the hospital.

"I'm going to call for a nurse the second we're in that room," she told him.

"Make it Melissa?"

Deputy Thompson sighed, this time even more deeply. "If you'll actually listen her, sure."

Stiles couldn't quite get his face to function enough to get into an innocent expression. Right now, he had two faces: dead tired and dead tired while in pain. Deputy Thompson took pity on him anyway, delivering him to Jackson's bedside and calling in another nurse, who'd look for Melissa. She took a post next to the guard on Jackson's door. From within the room, Stiles heard them complain while Thompson grabbed her phone to get in touch with the sheriff.

 _My dad's going to kill me,_ Stiles thought, and hoped he at least wouldn't arrive for another half hour.

Jackson was lying completely still in the hospital bed. Stiles slumped into the seat next to him. Lydia wasn't there, but he smelled the faint scent of her perfume. He'd smelled it at his own bedside, too, but the thought didn't instill him with as much glee as it would've a month ago.

 _Thank god, I'm sick of you thirsting for my girlfriend,_ Jackson said.

 _I'm going to stuff your soul into that plant over there instead,_ Stiles told him, very seriously.

He took Jackson's hand in his, holding the calloused hand tight.

 _Well?_ Jackson asked.

 _Well, get on with it,_ Stiles said. _You're the one who needs to get out of my body. Just... follow my hand or something._

_This shit needs an instruction manual._

Stiles thought of pushing Jackson out, trying to remember the way he'd gotten him in, and doing the opposite. In turn, he felt it as Jackson struggled to breach the barrier of Stiles' body and into the nearest living thing. And like a rubber band, Stiles' hold on Jackson's soul snapped. Jackson's body gave a full-body shudder, while Stiles clutched his head as he felt a headache breaking through his skull.

"You okay?"

Stiles looked up and saw that Jackson had opened his eyes and made his way onto his elbows. "Fine. Just a headache."

 _You'll feel better when the rest of us are out,_ Laura said, sympathetically. With how closely they were tied together, she and Peter could probably feel it, too.

Stiles was considering just falling into an exhausted unconsciousness instead of getting up when the door to Jackson's hospital room opened. He half-expected it to be Matt, with the way Stiles' luck went, but it was Scott's mom who came through.

"I had to check if he was okay," Stiles said quickly, before Melissa could begin to lecture him.

She gave him a careful hug, and even that hurt a bit, but the way she said, "Don't you dare worry me again," filled him with warmth. Melissa wasn't his mom, but she was the closest thing he had.

And then she pulled away, dried her eyes, and began to lecture them both. Jackson on heroism—which Stiles tried very hard not to laugh at and even Jackson's contrite expression looked pained—and Stiles on skipping school and coming back to the house when his guard had gone back to the station.

"Matt would've found me anyway," Stiles argued. "Uh, what happened to him? Was he found?"

Melissa gave him a frustrated look. "You're not allowed to leave the hospital until you're discharged, am I clear?"

"Yes, m'am," they chimed.

"He hasn't been found yet, but it's only a matter of time. All the police in the area are looking for him. All you two need to worry about right now is getting some rest and healing."

Stiles nodded in agreement. "I don't even want to move, no way am I gonna leave the hospital."

"Deputy Thompson will be happy to walk you back to your room once you're done here," Melissa said, probably knowing too many of Stiles' tricks by now.

Once she left the room, Jackson asked, "Can you even move right now?"

Stiles shrugged. The movement caused him to flinch in pain. "I'll be fine. We need to get to the Hale house."

"And Lydia."

"And Lydia," Stiles agreed. "We should probably go to her first."

He considered exactly how they were going to get there, since he doubted anyone had conveniently parked his Jeep in the parking lot. Especially considering that it had still been part of a crime scene the last time he'd seen it. Scott's bike was out of the question, even if he could snatch someone's phone to call his friend. Stiles thought he might fall off the bike as soon as he got onto it in his condition.

For once, Stiles was glad Jackson was way ahead of him as the teen pulled out his phone, hit a couple buttons, and said, "Lydia, I need a favor."

 _Click_.

Jackson redialed. "It's important—"

"—I'm at the hospital and need you to come—"

"—I'll go to Danny if you won't talk to me—"

"—and then he'll know more about what's been happening than you do—"

Ten attempted calls later, Jackson was saying, "—he's probably a better lay than you anyway—"

"—I know you were here earlier—"

"I was only there because I had to be," Lydia finally replied. "Scott and Allison went to see Stiles and I had nothing better to do with my time."

"I— I appreciate it anyway. Thanks. For caring."

"I don't."

Jackson swallowed. "I do. A lot."

"Of course you do. That's why you've been flirting with Allison for the past couple months. It's because you love me so much."

"You were the one who made out with Scott!"

"You weren't paying attention to me!"

"I was just busy—"

"—busy staring at Allison's ass, which is very cute but not—"

"I tried to make time—"

"Bullshit."

"Fuck you, what do you want me to say?"

"That you love me."

"I _do_ love you. A lot. I was just... going through some changes."

"And that you won't do it again."

"Then you can't make out with McCall again."

"He's a better kisser than you are."

"He is _not_."

"Stiles is probably better, too. And at least he's told me he loves me more than _once_ in our entire lives."

"If you wanted him, you'd be with him already. Just... please, Lydia?"

She huffed. "I'm already on my way. Be at the west exit in five minutes. _Don't_ be late; I'm not waiting around for you."

"Thanks. Uh. Love you."

"Don't wear it out."

 _Click_.

Jackson's phone rang again.

"I love you, too."

 _Click_.

Stiles tried to pretend he hadn't heard the entire conversation. He and the other two people in his head. "So, how are we getting out?"

.

Four minutes later, two barefoot patients in hospital gowns ran through the doors of the west exit and jumped into Lydia's car.

"Drive!" Stiles yelled, looking back at the mass of security guards and nurses that had followed them, with Melissa at the helm. Crap, she looked really mad. Stiles wondered if he could claim temporary insanity. Maybe he could even blame it on Jackson.

Once they were past the hospital grounds and thankfully not being chased by Melissa in an ambulance—though Stiles was positive she'd call his dad right about now, Lydia asked, "Where are we going?"

"The preserve—specifically, the old Hale house," Stiles said. "Actually, we need to grab a shovel first. And maybe some clothes."

Lydia hummed in agreement. "Danny's house is on the way. We can pick him up, too. And I hope you have a good explanation."

"We're going to dig up Peter and Laura Hale's corpses," Stiles supplied, going for a glib tone but everything coming out a bit woozy instead.

"Are you going to pass out in my backseat?" 

"Maybe," Stiles admitted.  

"Just don't throw up."

He left the explanations to Jackson and focused on keeping himself from passing out in Lydia's backseat, interjecting only for the parts Jackson hadn't been directly involved in. When they stopped at a couple streets from the edge of the preserve, Stiles didn't bother getting out and left everything to Lydia and Jackson, who took too long inside. Stiles listened to them tell Danny about what happened with half an ear.

No matter what he'd told Lydia, passing out was nearly a certainty.

 _Can you do it after freeing us?_ Laura asked, with a feeling of agreement from Peter behind her words.

_No promises._

Jackson came back fully dressed and threw a pair of flip-flops, jeans, and a t-shirt at Stiles. Danny gave him a mug of coffee.

After professing his love for Danny, Stiles turned to Jackson and said, "Admit it, I'm growing on you."

 _So much that we'll all be fused together if you don't get a move on it,_ Peter grumbled.

"I just don't want to see your dick again," Jackson replied, scowling.

Stiles snorted. It was too late for them. Running down hospital corridors while only wearing a slitted hospital gown really didn't leave anything to the imagination. With that thought in mind, he slipped into the clothes and got back into the backseat, sitting next to Danny, whose phone he borrowed to call Blair and let him know they were all fine. Blair didn't sound like he believed him, but at least he didn't sound like he was going to speed over to Beacon Hills.

The coffee wasn't much help, and after a couple explanations, Stiles slipped into the hazy area between wakefulness and actually understanding what was going on. When he wasn't as aware of how strange it was, it wasn't bad, having two other souls inside him. Peter and Laura were so warm.

 _It's nearly what having a sentinel/guide bond feels like,_ Peter said.

 _Manipulate me later,_ Stiles said back, sleepily, and he felt something like laughter inside him. Peter or Laura, he couldn't tell.

It took him long minutes to realize their path had gotten bumpy. The closer they got to the Hale house, the less paved the roads were, until they were driving only on a gravelly path. The car came to a stop outside the Hale house.

Stiles blinked his eyes rapidly and rubbed at his temples, letting his senses run as wild as he dared. He gulped down some of the coffee, too, and the shot of caffeine made his head spin for a moment.

"There's someone in the house," Stiles said, once he was sure that speaking was going to be just that. He didn't bother keeping quiet; whoever it was would've heard them pull up.

He was the last out of the car, stumbling out of it basically like a guy who'd been stabbed much too recently. Movement still hurt like hell, but the coffee had helped. He was pretty sure he wouldn't pass out. He joined them in standing a couple yards away from the ruined doorway of the Hale house.

"Can you tell who it is?" Jackson asked.

Stiles shook his head. "Most people aren't really identifiable. Whoever it is, he—or she—isn't wearing any kind of perfume, no particularly recognizable deodorant, no weird heart condition, nothing. Just… human."

They shared a glance between themselves.

There was a chance that it was Matt, hiding out in an abandoned house while authorities searched for him. And four against one weren't bad odds, especially since Stiles needed to know what Matt's story was going to be for the police. Whether he was so crazy as to go on record that the supernatural was real or if he would try to turn things around. And maybe catching Matt would mean his dad wouldn't be as angry when Stiles made his way back to the hospital after this.

Stiles was the first to walk toward the house, warily scanning the area with his senses. He didn't smell gunpowder, didn't sense anything that might indicate a gun, but he couldn't be sure. Before he could reach the entrance, Jackson stopped him with a hand on Stiles' shoulder and passed him.

"Shut up," Jackson muttered, and Stiles huffed.

Stiles walked inside on Jackson's heels and exhaled a deep breath when he saw Matt pacing the burned husk of a living room to the left of the stairs. If he had a weapon, Matt wasn't holding it.

The floorboards creaked with the weight of four more high schoolers. Matt spun around. He was still wearing the same clothes from the last time Stiles had seen him and they had traces of Stiles' blood. But Matt's expression wasn't one of sociopathic glee, but a harried face of a man on the run.

"How did you find me?"

"By accident, honestly," Stiles replied, stepping closer into the room. "You gonna plead forgiveness or something?"

Matt sneered. "As if. Jackson, transform."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "No, thanks."

"Traitor," Matt growled. "You'd rather be under _his_ control?"

"I'd rather be free, but at least Stiles isn't making me kill people." There was something awful in Jackson's expression as he asked, "Why'd you do it? Why'd you make me kill some random people?"

"Except they weren't random, was it?" Lydia said, crossing her arms.

"I did some research while my best friend was in a coma that no one was sure he was gonna come out of," Danny said, the last part all pointed anger. "Isaac's dad, Jason Tillet, Jack Cruz—they were all on the swim team under Coach Lahey. And you used to live near the Laheys. So what happened, Matt?"

Curling his lip, Matt said, "That's the first time anyone ever asked me that. All the coach said was to keep my mouth shut. They drowned me, right under the coach's eyes, they drowned me. I only lived with luck. I couldn't even swim. And then they actually dared to live their own lives and forget what they did to me."

Stiles shook his head. "They grew up. You didn't."

"They would've killed me."

"Then they're assholes and you should've told someone. You shouldn't have killed them the moment you could. Especially not using Jackson. What's he even done to you?"

"Nothing, but it's not like Jackson's a saint. You've been here, Stiles. You know how it feels, to have your life turned upside-down by monsters. You don't get to preach forgiveness when you'd do the same thing."

"I'd do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn't happen again. Forgiveness doesn't prevent anything. And yeah, maybe that something's killing them—him," Stiles amends, because there's no use in hiding the obvious when there's only one person he's thinking of. "Other times, it's protecting him from fucking life itself so the shit that lead up to him doing it never happens again." It's too personal, so he doesn't add: _You give him a support network, you give him a life, you give him all the trust you can allow and then you make sure he's living up to it. And if he doesn't, you kill him. Hear that, Peter?_ But all that, it involves an element of forgiveness and understanding that Matt doesn't have. Maybe, it's just because Peter didn't bite Stiles or kill Stiles' sister. It wasn't Stiles whom he hurt the most. Or maybe Matt was just a sociopath, he thought as Matt's use of Jackson came to mind. "But I wouldn't involve an innocent asshole like Jackson in the mess."

"So what, you're going to kill me for it?"

Stiles shrugged, glancing at Jackson. He wouldn't do it, but Jackson… Stiles didn't know if he could stop Jackson, even if he wanted to. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"You're not worth me fucking up my life like that," Jackson said. "I'm giving you to Stiles' dad. He can deal with you."

"And if you say a word about Jackson, it'll be me you'll be facing," Stiles told him. "And I'm the sheriff's kid. I know the station like the back of my hand. And I promise, I'll find a way into wherever you're sent."

Matt lunged for the back door, but Jackson caught him easily, knocking him to the floor with supernaturally enhanced strength. He punched him twice, knocking Matt unconscious, and then picked him up in a fireman's carry.

"Let's go," Jackson said. "I don't have all day and Stiles looks like he's going to pass out."

"I was _stabbed_ , it's normal."

Jackson snorted.

"Lydia, you believe me, right?"

But Lydia was already walking off with Jackson. Danny patted Stiles on the back, avoiding the side with the wound that Stiles was pretty sure had reopened, because it hurt like fuck.

"I believe you," Danny said.

Danny was a real bro, Stiles decided. He breathed in a long breath of fresh air once they walked outside.

"You're really sticking him in the trunk?" Danny called, half laughing.

"He could get out," Jackson said.

"Really," Lydia said. "But it's a good idea. We don't have any rope and I don't know how long it'll take to resurrect the Hales."

"Hopefully not very long," Stiles said, grabbing the shovels and walking over to the makeshift graveyard to the side of the house. He set them down on the ground, thinking about how the rituals would have to go. "I'll do your bond first," he decided.

Turning to Lydia and Jackson, Stiles said, "You have to be sure. _Really_ sure. Lydia, this is going to change how you think about Jackson completely. It's—insanely powerful, the sense that you can do whatever you want with him. And Jackson, you're literally giving her the power of life and death for you."

Lydia and Jackson shared a look.

"I already tell you what to do, anyway," Lydia said, her lips quirking into a small smile.

Jackson took her hand. "Yeah, because I _let_ you. You get all pouty when you don't have your way."

"I won't pout if you decide to back out." She squeezed his hand gently. "It'll be less complicated if you go to Danny with this."

Shaking his head, Jackson said, "I want it to be you." Glancing at Danny, he added, "No offence man."

"I don't want it anyway," Danny said. "I mean, I'd do it."

"I know," Jackson said, smiling crookedly.

"Tell me why me," Lydia replied, running her other hand along Jackson's jaw. "As a test run."

"Fuck you," Jackson murmured, softly.

Lydia's smile just widened. "I love you, too."

The moment was unbearably sweet. Just as Stiles was about to turn away and examine the graves instead, the two turned back to him.

"Get on with it," Jackson said, decisively.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Honestly, Jackson had no idea what had gone through Stiles' mind those first few moments they'd been bonded. How easily Stiles could've just given in. And how much Stiles hoped Jackson was right about Lydia. If Jackson was wrong, if Lydia was still angry, if her love for him wasn't selfless... Stiles hoped he'd even be able to stop things before they went too far.

 _We'll be there, too,_ Laura said, and Peter gave his agreement.

With Laura's help, Stiles took up Laura's role in the ritual. She whispered words he didn't understand in his head and Stiles said the ritual chant aloud, the whole time quelling the part of him that didn't want to do this.

The same part that completely predicted the sudden emptiness he felt when the bond transferred over to Lydia. Stiles leaned against Jackson, tuning out whatever was happening between Jackson and his new master. The feeling would go away. It had to; it wasn't natural, anyway. He'd only had the bond for a short time.

To take his mind off of it, Stiles picked up a shovel and got to work. He was joined by Danny, who broke the mountain ash barrier when Stiles, who had two werewolf souls inside himself, couldn't. Later, Lydia and Jackson joined in.

Peter's corpse looked just as disturbing as it had when Stiles had dug it up just days ago, and Laura's looked worse, having decomposed more in the months since Stiles and Scott had found her body. Stiles took hold of Peter's wrist first, trying not to hold the thin skin too roughly.

 _You know what to do?_ Stiles asked.

Peter didn't need prodding. He poured out of Stiles, taking his soul and power and as much energy as Stiles could give him through their bond.

Peter's eyes opened even before his body began looking more alive than dead.

"Freaky," Danny murmured.

Stiles mustered a grin. "The zombie jokes can now begin."

But instead of teasing, he stumbled over to Laura's grave and began the process over.

From the very edge of his attention span, he heard a shovel lightly hit skin, and Lydia say, "You attacked me at the dance."

"If it helps, Stiles threw a molotov cocktail at me for it."

"Revenge by proxy isn't my style."

Laura's resurrection took more work than Peter's. He didn't have the same bond between a sentinel and a guide between them, didn't know her—and it surprised him how much that mattered, how much more familiar Peter's very soul was—and her body was so very long dead.

 _It's alright if it doesn't work,_ Laura said. _I'll miss Derek and Peter, but I don't mind joining my family. I'd planned to move on soon, anyway_.

Stiles shook his head. _Not happening._

He forced everything he had to give into her body, letting her wash through it and pressing the two halves of her body together. She didn't heal like Peter, but her body connected enough for her to be able to sit up in the grave.

"I'd hug you if it wouldn't end up with you covered in me," Laura said.

"Let's make it a rain check," Stiles replied, laughing.

He swayed a bit as he stood up, but Peter caught him, helping him out of the grave, then doing the same with Laura.

"I'm taking you back to the hospital now," Lydia said, looping her arm around Stiles'. "And Jackson. Just in case."

Stiles nodded gratefully. To the Hales, he asked, "Do you have somewhere to go?"

"My apartment manager knows I sometimes leave for long business trips. My rent is paid through the end of the year just in case. Laura, would you like to…"

"Just for a bit, thanks. I don't know what Derek did with my stuff. Or where he even lives. The house smelled an awful lot like he'd been staying there."

"The area's been crawling with hunters lately, so I think he chose the abandoned train station?" Stiles said.

Laura smiled at him, a little scarily. "I'll put him to rights, even if I suppose he is my alpha now. Lydia, if you wouldn't mind us imposing on you for a little longer?"

Lydia raised an eyebrow.

"I could steal Peter's apartment keys and he could walk," Laura suggested. "I'm sure it'll do him some good."

Shaking her head, Lydia said, "Just this once. And how about I give you my hoodie, so that you don't give anyone a heart attack on the way…"

While the others walked back to the car, Stiles stood for a moment with Peter. He didn't know what to think; he'd had the man's very soul inside him, and it hadn't been the same as it had been with Laura and Jackson. Maybe it was the history, maybe it was the fact that Peter was a guide, maybe it was just them… But Stiles didn't want this to be the end.

"Come for dinner, on Thursday. You can tell me all you know about this whole sentinel thing."

Peter's lips curled into a hint of a smile at Stiles' words. "I'd be honored."

"And... I think, maybe you should do a demonstration for my dad." Stiles mimed the claws and the weird eyebrow disappearance. It didn't earn him a full smile, but Stiles thought he'd get it eventually. He didn't know why he wanted this—why he wanted happiness to creep into the eyes of this man who'd murdered and suffered and terrified him once—but god, he did.

"You're finally telling your father? After all this time?"

Stiles glanced away. "It's different now that it's me. _I'm_ different. I don't want our conversation about this to be after I zone out for hours or get spooked by a sound a mile away." He wasn't fully human anymore—or maybe more human than anyone—and his senses prickled under his skin. He'd rather tell his dad himself rather than have him find out.

And there was someone he wanted to introduce to his dad, anyway.

He didn't want to be dependent on Peter. But... he wanted this. They weren't equal partners yet; Stiles still had so much more to learn before that day came. But he had confidence in that one day it would. That one day, they could be a team: two men side by side, their strengths and weaknesses and virtues and vices complimentary, creating something more than just two men.

"Guide?" Stiles asked, giving Peter a questioning look. He knew he didn't have to ask, that Peter had wanted the bond from the beginning, but he wanted to make sure.

"Sentinel."

And it felt good, right, to grasp Peter's hand in his own, sealing the deal.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! Probably going to go back in and make some minor edits later, but that's a wrap for my June 2015 Rough Trade project.


End file.
